My hand wanders over my leather-clad breasts and I moan instantaneously. I walk to a drawer and retrieve my favourite vibrator: silver, thick and with a large head. I get on the floor, on my knees, and I place the cold cock at my opening after pulling my useless, sodden knickers to the side. I slide it in slowly until braving the full length. I enjoy the sensation of feeling totally full before I switch to vibrate and cum immediately. The pressure I have been suffering for almost two hours or more is instantly released. It crashes into me and my body sags. My stomach collapses and the burning radiates throughout my entire being. I negate any withdrawals of my Master or the Italian by refusing to give up. I allow the vibrating cock to send me rocketing toward multiple-orgasms, and, I refuse to give in until I pass out.
I lay on my back. On my side. On all fours on the bed. I get naked but leave the boots on. I sit astride it and fuck mercilessly. The build-up is profound and the one name on my lips as I crash into the heavens is…
I collapse on the bed and feel the dildo still humming inside my cunt. I clench my muscles and press it out. I can't move my jellified hands so it slides off my thigh and drops on the bed, still vibrating. I think about that Italian's puzzlement and for a few moments, I consider whether I am in actual fact a masochist who is trying desperately not to be. My complexity is incomprehensible, even by my own reckoning. I survived so much. I lived so fast… I try to brush all that aside but memories hit me hard.
I cry a little before sleeping for possibly 10 minutes, but it feels like hours. The ghosts of the past never leave me.
I shower and redress. I am Charlotte again.
The Fledgling Spreads Her Wings
I left my life behind so that he could not find me, my Master I mean. I don't keep in touch with any friends or family, save one. She's my confidante, my rock, my everything at the moment.
Florence du Plessis; the artist who befriended me some years ago, showed me a different world and made it impossible for me to ever turn back. I was indoctrinated in the pleasures of the flesh.
As I lay here in the bath washing the Italian and the session I enjoyed afterward off my skin, she sits on the toilet lid and stares at me, with her elbows on her knees and her cheeks resting in her palms.
“What is that look for?” I ask.
She can read me like a book, the bloody woman. She doesn't say a word. She glares menacingly, awaiting my confession. I use the sponge and lather up as a way of ignoring her, but I can still feel her piercing gaze. I don't need to see her black eyes to realise they are burning a hole through me.
“Fine,” I mutter, “what do you want? An explanation? Another admission of my weakness?”
“You're talking nonsense, Lottie. Come on.”
“I tried to quit. I can't.”
She's referring to my promise to stop dominating men for money. After what happened recently with Cody James, I thought I was done. I'd given him the ring that used to let people know I was a member of the Lodge. It symbolised everything that I had engaged in while I was part of that sect, and really, there is not much that did not take place inside that wooden cavern of debauchery. Thus, in giving him the Chambermaid's ring, my true identity is not as safe. I don't know why, but over the years, I have felt it very important to separate who I am from what She does. I'm Charlotte. She's Lottie, a.k.a. The Chambermaid. I don't feel secure in viewing myself as both one and the same.
I came home that day, after seeing Cody for the first time in six years, and told Flo I was done with that work. But, here I am, still doing it. Still risking myself.
“If only you would just call Him,” she said.
“Don't push me on this, Flo. You know I won't be pushed.”
“Christ, if anyone knows that, I do,” she moans, and she still looks terrifically unimpressed. “Look, listen, you have priorities now. Why are you still doing this? There's no need. You've got plenty of money, so have I! You have the book deal secured. Come on. Just leave it behind.”
“Why should I? What harm am I doing anyone?” I shout. I don't like getting irate but… she's an infernal woman, daring to question me.
“You know the harm you are doing. Just take a look in the mirror,” she says gravely.
“You're not my mother!” I curse.
She moves to the door, intending to walk straight out, but she turns back with a swagger in her gait. She's my equal if ever there were one. She's a champion of her own skills in the realms of artistry.
“Lottie, I know what you're doing, you know. I know why you do this.”
“Why?” I scathe, sarcastically. We know why.
“To punish him. To bait him. You want him to come running back into your arms, the knight in shining armour, and lift you on to his steed…” she giggles maniacally, “…oh yes, and everything will be merry and bright. It'll all work out beautifully. You can finally have your fantasy.”
“Shut up!” I demand.
She still bores holes in me with her laughing eyes and chortles, “Huh, you fool nobody, darling.”
“Fuck you, Flo,” I say tiredly. She walks out laughing and I throw the sponge at her back.
“You know I am right, precious Lottie. Gorgeous Lottie. He won't give up on you. Perhaps, you should admit that now. Save yourself a lot of wasted time and hassle.”
I throw myself underwater and hold my breath for as long as I can. I emerge breathless and panting, cursing her. I know she's right. He's trying to find me and I am trying to help him find me, but I am doing it on my terms. I am working so little, just the odd client, but enough to give him a whiff of my presence in the neighbourhood. I am prolonging the inevitable if you like, though I do want him back. But also, I don't. There is too much between us and I still don't feel ready to face it. Sometimes I yearn for the newspaper or magazine article that tells me he's marrying some model or actress. At least then I could say goodbye. I could say I was right all along. He never really wanted me.
I also know what Flo is referring to. Each time I go to see another client ‒ another rich man demanding that he be whipped for his pleasure ‒ I come back with just a little bit more of my soul ripped from me. You see, one man took my heart and gradually his influence swelled to every corner of it. But bad things happened and I left. I ran away. I bolted like the little colt I am. A foundling is what I consider myself and I refuse to belong to anybody. The crux of the matter is, I know no other man will do it for me anymore. He's it. He's the body, soul and mind I crave to lose myself in. And yet, the fantasy I dreamt of all my life does not exist. I was forced to realise that. I rebelled against it, and, I left him. It broke my heart and no doubt, his too. But, I have my reasons…
I dry myself by the side of the bath and dress in a towelling robe. I go downstairs and Flo is waiting for me with a brew, and, a pink wafer on the side next to it. I give her a sly smile and pick up my refreshments.
Then she grimaces.
“His detective friend, Heath, still follows me. I always have to thrash the Mazda to escape him. Jolly good job he only has that shitty old Volvo estate!” Flo purrs, in her posh Counties tones. She's got a voice crafted for voiceovers, especially food adverts… If puddings were made by… they'd be double-dipped chocolate logs in double cream, drenched in raspberry coulis scrumptiousness. I digress… but yes, she has a sexy voice.
Anyway, my mind racing with thoughts, we laugh riotously as a bit of pink wafer hits the back of my throat, almost choking me. I bend over in fits of giggles, imagining some shabby detective chasing Flo's MX-5 through the lanes and roads of Nottinghamshire. I can just imagine her nonchalantly flooring the thing, with her large Hepburn shades on and a white scarf wrapped rakishly round her head, as if it is nothing but a trifle to be driving like a loon. She's just a posh bird fleeing a sad old git who's getting paid sixpence for his troubles. She's so fucking posh that her family leave national treasures in their wills rather than land or money. It's so fucking funny that she has to evade little jumped-up shits like him. All for my sake.
God love her.
What seems most amusing, really, is the fact that we have these stupid men circling and they are totally at our will. They just won't leave us alone and we really couldn't give a fuck whether they want us or not. They messed us about and we don't want them anymore. As much as she baits me about my former beau, I bait her about that stupid prick Mark, whose cock may be the size of a small colony but whose brains seem to have been absorbed amongst the stinky old books he surrounds himself with every day of his life.
Gasping, I mutter, “I am so fed up of this. You're right. It's ridiculous!”
I am evading every authority going. I had to get an offshore bank account. My rented house and all the bills are in Flo's name, though she could probably buy the house 10 times over and fuel it for ten centuries. She doesn't mind helping me a bit, money or no money.
We laugh a little more when I see tears threatening in the corners of her eyes. She and I rarely need to say much to one another anymore. We are two sides of the same coin. Perhaps I should admit, right now, that Flo's my soul mate. I really should. She's less of a mind-fuck than any of those men I have wasted my time on.
“The book is due out soon. We'll bugger off somewhere then, what do you say?” I ask her. “I don't want to be here when he reads it.”
“I am game. I am stretching the sabbatical but then it was well overdue…” she smiles, and looks up at the ceiling as she consults with her mental calendar. She has had a lot of time off since she and Mark split, and the university have been very good, but I can see her thinking about wanting to get back to work. Then she turns her eyes back on me, “So, are you going to slip up and let that silly Heath fellow find you, finally?”
“Maybe. He might have been put through enough misery. If I let him find me, the poor sod will get his payday, I suppose.”
“And your work?” Flo asks.
“I'll just have to find other work, won't I?” I mutter, before heading to the living room to attend to business. As I walk there, I realise she knows me too well. She knows I need my work to keep me sane. Even that man who claimed to love me knew that.
I told my employers I am leaving and what did they do? They insisted I train up a little newbie in recompense. Oh, please. But then as I thought about it, the promise of what I might be able to impart smoothed away my reluctance a little. It could be fun; my last laugh as Lottie ‒ the Chambermaid ‒ before I depart for better lands.
I tried to negotiate a neutral zone for the exercise because it won't be a quick in-and-out job, like I'm used to. I asked for the location to be somewhere outside the county, but not too far. So, they have sent me to fucking London. Cripes. His town. My lover's town. Former lover…
I got on the phone straight away and cussed like a trucker in a bid to get the meeting moved, so that I wouldn't have to go anywhere near Him. But then they told me… the meet-up is in an office in The Shard. Dear Lord. It's a euphemistic bloody nightmare. A metaphorical challenge. It's a beckoning beacon of glorious manhood. I have to do it. Shit. All kinds of possibilities ran through my mind.
A few days passed and now I am riding the train from Nottingham to London, preparing for a full, all-out indoctrination that will see my so-called slave turned into a Mistress. Men rarely ask for these instances, because the cost is astronomical (hence the recompense to my employers for me leaving), but whichever client asked for this must be fucking insane. Well, the man can take insane and shove it up his ass, he hasn't met me yet!
Yes, this is going to be on-the-job training at its best. You'll see. You will. It's war. This man ‒ like I say, whoever he is ‒ probably did not reckon on getting me that day. Nor what I have in mind.
I look down at my iPhone and read the email the agency sent me. I have already read it dozens of times, but one more shan't hurt.
The client requires a skilled Mistress to train a nubile young lady for his pleasure. The learner will obviously be for other men's pleasure too, in time, so she needs instilling in all areas of domination. He has paid handsomely to see his little temptress be educated before his very eyes. He requires that.
He prefers to be hit with the paddle or the riding crop, but not the flogger. No. He does not request the flogger.
Pah, I bought three floggers, in red, white and blue. To match his royal colours in the morning, after I am done with him. The saucy devil. I know such requests are more often than not incitements. Especially if the agency has warned the client beforehand of my real, actual, taste for bloodshed. If they approve, I approve.
I read on…
I require lace. I require beauty. I require elegance, and above all, I require complete privacy with the Mistress after she has trained the apprentice.
That means, he possibly wants full sex. He's not getting it though. I am done with that. Done. No sex for me, ever again. Done, I tell you.
As I hit King's Cross, I shudder. I pull my collar up around my neck and hunch over, trying to appear unattractive. I need to blend in. I need to hide. The swarms and the crowds aggravate me a little, but then, for whom don't they? I am nothing special there. But then as I wonder why I am feeling so sick, a part of me thinks I am responding to the possibility of there being a certain Mr Yeardley in the vicinity. I wonder whether it is paranoia or whether it is even the fact that his very aura, even though it might be a mile or two away, is seeking me. His telekinetic abilities are trying to drown me in his thoughts. In his arms. Return to me Charlotte. I love you. I need you. Come back.
They may actually be my thoughts. I am not so sure of anything. As I sweep into the Underground, I simply know that being in the very city he works in makes me on edge. He could creep up on me at any moment! He could. He could undo so many months of trying to fix myself, just like that.
I rearrange my thoughts and focus. I recall what I have in my bag, closing my eyes as I ride the rickety old Tube, with my face almost pressed into a stranger's armpit and my bum slamming against something hard. I don't even want to think about that. I dread to think. It might set me off.
I itemise the list in my bag. Three floggers. A vibrating cock ring. A selection of ropes. Lube. Aphrodisiac gel. An ample dildo. A pair of cuffs. A collar and leash. A gimp mask. Yes, it is a pretty big bag… A pocket pussy, a couple of butt plugs… Hell, I have my hands if nothing else.
I stride into the city from the Underground and walk past Tower Bridge. I gaze at it with wonder and wish I had more time to explore. But then I think, no. I might end up facing a date with destiny in that case. I might… you know, never leave again if he finds me. Somehow as I walk the large paving slabs, I manage to move one foot in front of the other, counting the blocks as I go. I have to make it there and not turn around and head straight back the way I came.
As I reach the modern, glass-and-metal reception hall of the Shard, I absorb the signs and the human traffic and the polystyrene coffee cups piled in bins everywhere. Most workers and visitors seem to be heading home. Well, it is creeping toward evening. As I gaze around, I see her. I instructed her to be in much the same attire as I, and, with a red rose adorning her coat. She sees me too, wearing mine, and together we sign in as Mr T—t's guests. The security guard nudges his colleague and winks at us, and I scowl with the force of ten thousand scowls combined, warning him with my ferocious eyes to keep himself to himself. Maintain decorum and respect. The man we are visiting must have a reputation, however. But diplomacy is my middle name.
The girl and I head for the lifts. We ride it for how ever many floors, in silence. We need this to be as authentic as possible. She doesn't know me. I do not know her. I am her instructor and she is my slave. End of.
We exit into a vast corridor and I count the rooms as we go, reeling them off in my head. Three, two… one. Here we go. We're here. It is very quiet in the halls and I turn to the girl and whisper, “As soon as we are inside, you are a slave. I am your Mistress. That is the deal. When we leave, I am nobody. You are the Mistress. Entrust yourself to me and I will ensure you are equip
ped by the time we leave, got it?”
She nods.
I knock on the door, and, he opens within seconds.
“Come in,” he says.
I know not to really gain eye contact with him. He's a slave too. I am in charge. I know, as I let my black leather trench coat fall from my shoulders, that I have a job to do. The onus is on me. I have to take charge and the nerves I feel, knowing my former Master might be in the area, help me channel those wrought energies into this.
“Kneel slave,” I tell the man, “and wait.”
“Yes, Mistress,” he tells me, already in on the act.
I am to deal with the little minx that stands before us. She is the one who needs educating, after all. She is the subject of this matter. I turn to her and notice she has the greenest of green eyes, even greener than my Master's emerald pools. His turned sludgy with fatigue or sparkled in the sunshine. I remember the first time I saw them in daylight. I fell in love with him that day.
She has ruby-red hair. Perhaps it is even her natural shade I'd say. Her eyebrows match and hopefully, for the man's sake, the carpets will match too. She's certainly a sexual creature but I will teach her. I shall.
“I am known today as Mistress, and you are both Slave Girl and Slave Boy.”
“Yes Mistress,” they both say. The pair will be bonded after I leave today and he may seek her for his personal use, or professional. Either way, they're doomed. We all are. Doomed to fall in love when we least expect it and then muck it up inevitably.
“Slave Girl, remove your coat,” I say, and she does.
Like me, she's wearing a full body stocking in lace. Hooks and eyes at the front. Halter neck. Could be mistaken for a nice pair of tights beneath our coats. I'm wearing a pair of red strappy sandals whereas she's wearing the most beautiful Victorian boots in nude leather, with ribbon laces. Stunning. I have to concentrate hard not to commend her on them. Never mind her near-perfect breasts and adequately full hips.
Bedtime Confessions (The Chambermaid's Tales - Short Stories) Page 3
