December 4th 1983
Tris came back from the off-license with the fresh supplies of Camels, wine and crisps for which he had been sent. Claire was much as he had left her, reading by her fire in jeans and T-shirt, but the buccaneer who had been ravishing her previously was now face down on her lap, interrupted from his bodice-ripping while she chatted down the line. The television was on--it always was--and he sneaked his chance to turn it down without being seen. At last, prime-time, he thought, looking round for the corkscrew.
Ah yes, prime time! The chaotic bustle of Claire's home had finally subsided, as sundry friends and relatives had reluctantly departed one by one. Miles, Claire's turbulent boy of three, had presumably entered fragile sleep upstairs, since his usual squeals and shrill entreaties could not be heard, but ah!--that phone! Inevitably she was on it as Tristan walked back in, but at least during his brief trip round the block she hadn't become embroiled in one of her interminable conversations with some girlfriend, anxious for Claire's advice on their latest man-related disaster, and with relief he heard her sending please-die pulses down the line:
"?Right? right? okay Declan, I must admit you do make him sound quite interesting? yeah? yeah? all right, you don't have to layer it on with a trowel you know? yesss, I know you're away next week, but Sarah's leaving-do isn't until the Friday after--I'm bound to see you before then?"
Another problem solved, thought Tristan approvingly as he saw the phone sink back exhausted on its hook. Nor, by the look of it, would he have to spend the precious hours before Claire went to bed--and before he therefore was sent home--checking over some performance appraisal, procedure review, or other numbingly dull document emanating from the huge corporation which had come north to follow the oil, and which employed his Aphrodite as a supervisor in the bowels of personnel.
"?Be with you in a minute sweetie!--Just want to finish this chapter!?"
No, it really looked as though his stoic patience would be rewarded, and for a little while at least, they would drink and smoke and talk.
* * * *
Rachel shot a frantic glance at the grandfather clock in the hall, and panicked still further. It said twenty five past six, but the place was nothing like ready for Paul's imminent arrival. She had of course made his bed, vacuumed the main rooms--though not as thoroughly as she would have liked--and cleaned the bath and toilet.
She had also found time to fling his cast-off shirt, socks and underpants into the washing machine, albeit not with the usual reverence she showed for all things--other than herself, that is--which belonged to Paul. The train driver had wanted them all to stop for forty minutes to admire a dairy herd, and she knew this pastoral interlude would shortly cost her dearly.
Paul would be coming home to find his dinner not quite ready even after he had enjoyed his customary shower and aperitif; not that he would mind that in itself, of course--for Paul was far from fair sometimes but never less than just, and was often sympathetic before pointing to his lap. What had he said the last time he had taken her to task in circumstances much like these? She should know--it was well-enough ingrained in her by now?
"?I'm not blaming you for being late in itself, Rachel, but for heaven's sake girl!--if you don't have time to do everything you need to, then just get your priorities right and do what you can, but do it with a little care! There's never a good reason for doing things by halves, as it seems I'll have to teach you yet again?"
The incident that she recalled had happened last October, and nothing in it could be said to be the least unusual. Yet for some reason she could not say, it often came to mind these days and had become an inner mantra. By then, she had been brought to heel for several months and so the price was not at issue. She apologized to Paul and meant each word, bowed her head and pinched her skirt. Informed she would get thirty from his hand and four by belt, at nine o'clock precisely, she curtsied and resumed her duties.
As the great clock in the hallway chimed, she tip-toed through the doorway. She waited there a little while, legs apart and hands behind her, and tried to use the time constructively by thinking of her poor behavior. When the headlines of the TV news were through, he beckoned with a finger. She stood before him hands on head, asking his permission to pull panties down her legs. Once this had been granted with the customary nod, she put her hands inside her skirt and took them neatly past her hem.
Rachel's underpants were bought for her and came in just three shades: cream silk was the staple fare she dressed in every day, and did no more than state the fact she knew why she was there. Sky blue was for discipline, a symbol of disgrace, and showed she understood her failings and would do her best to change. Deep blue was a rarity she dreaded putting on, a color she could choose herself when deeply in the wrong.
She looked to check her bird's-egg panties were not crooked on her thighs, and showed three inches past her hemline as due etiquette required. She made some small adjustments, ever keen to get it right, then placed her legs apart until they stretched out bowstring tight. When satisfied she had displayed herself according to his law, she held her skirt up wide and high, and then said sorry most politely.
Paul watched the progress of the world that day, and waved her to one side. She stepped smartly to his left at once, then reassessed herself. And there, with moist and gentle eyes unseen, she waited with her chin tucked down to have her discipline.
All Rachel's skirts were chosen fastidiously by Paul, who insisted on the proper blend of virtues: short enough to compliment her pleasant shapely legs, but demure in every aspect of their cloth, design and color. The one she had held up that night was cut in Paris from cashmere, many-pleated, soft dove gray, lined with silk of rich magenta. At the conclusion of the bulletin, Paul drew forward on the sofa to receive her to his care. His fingers clicked to indicate her time had now arrived, at which she walked up to his lap and started bending there. She took his belt from out its loops and twined it round her neck, her manner calm despite her nerves, her true contrition evident. Her skirt held up so carefully she finished her descent, and offered up her bottom for the use of force majeure.
She adjusted herself studiously, ensuring her couture could not fall back again while Paul was being cross. When satisfied that all was well she stretched her arms and legs, anxious that her buttocks be conveniently presented. Willingness in every way was paramount to Paul, and Rachel had learnt months ago her rump should wait there nice and high. Quivering and taut, she pushed upward with each sinew from her ankles to her thighs. Again to meet her obligations--the last required of her before her bouncing, squirming dance--she whispered softly from the floor, "Is this okay for you, Paul?"
He never let her call him 'sir' or use inflated titles, although her underwear had long made clear just who was lord and master. This was, thought Rachel as her discomfort started, his solitary cruelty. He had cut out her heart. Cauterized her pride. Told her to go away. For weeks after a one-night stand, denied her even rights to beg. She knew she was a pretty girl, but not so striking as to ever hope to have and hold a man like Paul. And so she eked her niche out only by her fingernails, and had progressed by turns from casual fuck, unpaid domestic help, to deferential maid.
Yet at their start she had so hoped to be a lover and a friend, and it had been scalding torment to be told to leave or bend. She wished he would complete the task and let her speak his rank, as nothing else could quell free will and snuff out all pretence. She was his property completely now and had been for some while, living only for his happiness and utterly his chattel.
No, for this quiet receptionist, just nineteen, Paul was every breath and joy, her reason on this world. When her sentence was all done, she promised to try harder as she knelt to kiss his hand.
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