© Copyright 2014 - Ms Indira - Used by permission
Storycodes: FF/m; femdom; caught; pantyhose; spank; brush; chast; tease; torment; shave; hum; denial; reluct/cons; X
Part 1: Caught Out
The words reaching his ears are unbelievable.
Soul-destroying and mortifying.
The lips from which they are emerging, to form what must surely be amongst the most outrageous suggestions ever to have been put to a white Anglo-Saxon male a day short of his forty-first birthday, are plump and full and in no way contradict the fleshy features above and within the frame of long and silky black hair that, along with her skin-tone, speaks so eloquently of her lowly Bangalore roots.
Fleshy features that cannot quite hide their delight at being able to direct such words at the man below her in the full knowledge retribution will not be neither forthcoming nor even hinted at.
That no such vengeance will be either threatened or extracted upon one who was, until recently, no more than a plump, if reasonably pretty, Indian girl of nineteen and the housekeeper to the man upon the bed, can be laid squarely at the door of his absent wife who has used certain fortuitous discoveries to not only place him in his current position of dependency but ensure he must remain in it.
Of these “fortuitous discoveries”, I shall speak shortly for, unless you have yet to guess, your narrator is she of the fleshy features and self-described prettiness contained in the brief description above. The same “lowly” Bangalore girl who right this moment explores the inside of an open pyjama fly and cradles in her brown hand the full balls of the man who is still, to all intents and purposes, her employer. A girl safe in the knowledge that the secure metal ring surrounding his scrotum which, in turn, is attached to the cage in which his penis rests, will prevent him troubling me.
Not when the only key capable of unlocking his manhood is currently around the neck of his American wife.
The “only key”, that is, of which he is aware and would be surprised to learn of the other currently hanging from a long silver-chain at my neck, hidden beneath my sari as it dangles in the unseen valley between my young and firm breasts.
The same full breasts I have asked for his wife’s permission, along with other things, to have him suckle upon in the bedroom upstairs to which his wife has elevated his former housekeeper, this while he occupies the less spacious and far more symbolic sleeping quarters that were once hers.
An elevation making it easier for the two women, American employer and Indian employee to enjoy their new… closeness.
Even if that “new closeness” does not prevent the wife herself being close with others of her choosing and even if that “choosing” provokes no jealousy on the part of the girl and sometimes lover who remains in her service.
Albeit with extra, and welcome, responsibilities.
The key in question is a key the young Indian girl will soon tell him of and remains yet another means by which she can add to the torment of him she enjoys so much.
But, for now however, he believes it is only his wife who can unlock the white cock that so aches for the release it can no longer provide for itself.
And she has yet to return from UB City after a day in her Concorde Tower offices where she operates one of the most successful sole-owned commercial leasing companies in the south of the country, let alone Bangalore itself.
But then, the time has yet to reach 8pm and it is likely she will be out many more hours yet – if, that is, she returns at all, given that she is meeting a very influential client who, she assures me, is extremely attracted to her.
And why would he not be? Still in her mid-thirties, Suzanna Parkes remains a highly attractive woman with a full-body. The sharply defined face beneath the page-boy cut blonde hair holds a severity that seems only to make her features as sexy as they appear determined. Any man in his right mind would wish to place his love-stick at her channel before exploring further and she has assured me that Mr Gokhale, as she referred to him, is nothing if not entirely sane.
At least upon this score.
Though I doubt he is as handsome as the man below me whose stupid fantasies have allowed his young housekeeper to lead both him and his wife to this household turnaround.
A young Indian housekeeper who has contrived to turn the love and devotion of his wife into contempt and a desire to…
Mentally and physically.
Again, I shall return to these… fantasies… shortly.
My name, by the way, is “Sahila”. In my land it means “Guide”. A very apt coincidence, as it is exactly what the wife of the handsome man whose scrotum I currently fondle wishes me to be.
Though I have little doubt the kind of guidance she wishes me to supply is not welcomed by the husband on the single-cot of the tiny downstairs bedroom at the back of the house.
A tiny downstairs bedroom to which he has now been demoted and which once was mine.
It must go without saying that I am extremely grateful to “Suzanna”, as she now insists I call her, for without knowing it she has allowed me to experience a dream I have cherished since I first saw the aunt who brought me up after the early death of my parents work herself to her grave for a pittance in the way of salary.
This in the home of a haughty Englishman who was working in our country as Professor of History at Bangalore University.
It is the oldest university in India and dates back to the end of the nineteenth-century and, if the attitude of the man himself towards my aunt were a guide, so did his ideas of station and service.
Quite simply, he treated her as if she were barely human and unworthy of consideration – and all this for the very lowest amount of pay he could get away with for services that were hardly well-remunerated to begin with. I am not gifted academically and this treatment handed out to a wonderful woman who brought me up single-handedly and worked for such scum that she could put me through school, as well as feed and clothe me, still makes my blood boil with rage. That schooling necessary, you understand, to gain an excellent, if over formal I am told, written English that would at least qualify me for work as a live-in housekeeper of the kind required by the Parkes.
Even if my speaking of the language is accompanied by a heavy accent I am quite unable to lose.
My earliest sexual fantasies, I confess, were of taking a bamboo-stick to the pale and naked behind of my aunt’s employer and somehow finding myself in a position of unquestioned power over him.
Fantasies that grew in strength – if not in fruition – and, despite my youthful years and the time still left to me, seemed unlikely to ever be realised.
Until, that is, I came to work for Suzanna and William Parkes.
Until I found myself fantasising harder than ever over the snobbish and handsome husband who, while not anywhere near as cruel and overbearing as the former employer of my aunt, could not help revealing to me the contempt he felt for someone of my origins.
The American wife, whose business and money was responsible for their presence in India and paid for him to continue indulging his dream to be a writer of fiction he will now never fulfil, a thankfully different proposition.
“You must take no notice of William,” Suzanna had told me shortly after taking up my employment with them. “This is his first time out of England for any length of time and he is not very… cosmopolitan. If he seems gruff and superior to you, take no notice. He will soon get used to things and adapt.”
Evidence of this ability or willingness to adapt had been lost upon me, however, and as much as I was coming to regard Suzanna with great affection, and she me, I had grave doubts I would ever see the man accustom himself to the ways of the country in which his wife was making the considerable living that kept him. There was, it seemed, little or nothing he found to like in his new abode. Whereas Suzanna herself seemed to flourish in her second land and appeared to delight both in its people and its culture.
Thankfully, apart from serving him tea, sandwiches, and other refreshments as required, I did not see much of him throughout the day while his wife was out at UB City. This, apart from being unable to gaze upon those handsome features and still boyish appearance – which I confess were the object of certain nightly dreams, was not a great loss to me. Shut inside the room designated as his study and furious to ever be interrupted, his absence gave me time to go about my housekeeping with a diligence - though I could hear him pecking away at his computer keyboard whenever I passed his room.
A computer that would soon prove pivotal in his downfall.
But back to the here and the now…
“Who would have thought it?” I muse as if to myself, knowing no answer will be forthcoming from the older Englishman who is the room’s only other occupant and that, so far has his wife placed both herself and her housekeeper in a position of power over him, he would be terrified of the consequences should he supply one. “The oh, so, superior man who looked down his nose upon his young Indian housekeeper when she first came, forced by his wife to obey her orders when she is not present as if he were a tiny child in need of supervision.”
The look of utter misery on the handsome features below a smooth and shining dome Suzanna only recently had me shave, making me wish to sling a leg over the cot and squish his face into my moist pussy. A response his shame and humiliation never fails to provoke and one I have still to force him to satisfy. Though this evening will, I have promised myself, and with the full knowledge of his wife, see me do so.
For now though, I run a patronising young, brown and Indian hand over his gleaming dome that he may again focus on the missing head of full hair of which he had once been so proud.
How must it be for a man of his years and looks to have to accept the authority and supervision of an Indian girl so much younger, I ask myself?
To have her dictate what he must and must not do when his wife is absent.
To have himself… handled… by her!
And to know she has absolutely no intention of making either his life or the constant round of humiliation it has become any the more bearable for him.
“But such snobbery on your part is all in the past now,” I tell him as he closes his eyes to the shame of being spoken to and handled with such… demoralising… familiarity by a girl yet to leave her teens – if only for a few months longer. “Ms Suzanna has seen you for the type of man you are now and, with my help, will make sure you become the type of husband you were always intended to be for her.”
As a means of underlining my words, I lift the metal cage imprisoning his defeated manhood before releasing it to fall back upon the full balls that have only just left the grasp of my brown hand that becomes ever more proprietorial with each passing hour of his wife’s new… regime.
“In her own way she still cares for you,” I go on, “but you must get used to the idea that you will never be a husband or a man to her in the truest sense of the word again. If you wish to continue knowing the security of the home she provides and which you have taken for granted for so long, you must show her you understand and accept that this is how things will be for the foreseeable future.”
The “foreseeable”, I told myself, being forever if I had my way, the misery staring back at me from the single-cot below after my heavily-accented pronouncement, and far from stirring sympathy in my breast, goaded me to revel in my new and thoroughly wonderful position of power and responsibility over him to take his torment further.
“Have you any idea how lucky you are that she still finds a place for you in her life after the disappointment you have proved to be as a husband?” I asked, following up quickly that he did not take the rhetorical question preceding it as an excuse to reply and ruin my flow. “It is to her credit that she keeps you at her side still and has not simply divorced you to the life of penury that your abilities ensure is all you may expect from a life without either her or her money.”
His expression told me it was not a “credit” he was of a mind to apply to her at this or perhaps any other moment.
“Is it not fitting that you repay her for providing you with such security by serving her in the best way in which you are capable? Surely she is not asking too much that you take care of those household chores and duties that once fell to her young Indian housekeeper now that she numbers that same girl amongst her lovers? Especially now she has seen through your looks and charm to know the real you more fully and decided to allow her housekeeper to ensure you become more… useful.”
At what was no more than a truism in regard of a man who had traded upon his looks and charm to gain what he wanted from the women in his life, and without supplying anything in the way of a compensatory and lucrative talent or even a desire to toil for pay in a way that was honest and decent, a tear squeezed past a closed eyelid and ran down the still handsome cheeks of the forty-something man.
I shivered for knowing my words were the cause of that tear and continued to stroke his head and coo at him as if he were, for all the world, an infant and it was only right that he be in his pyjamas and in bed at such an early hour.
But I was not finished yet:
“It must be such a relief for you to know that bigger and more powerful men will be relieving you of having to satisfy your wonderful wife in the bedroom from now on.”
The features below the head I had recently shaved and was petting as if he were a domestic pet in need of calming and reassurance – even as I went about torturing him – looked ashen; still quite unable to believe this could be happening to him!
“It is only right that a superior lady such as your wife be satisfied by real men with larger cocks and the ability to use them. Especially as you have proved so disappointing in this respect.”
He shook his head free of my stroking hand with as much petulance as he thought he could get away with and I tutted:
“Now, now, little Willie,” I chided him, using the diminution of his first-name I knew he hated. “I will tolerate no petulance. Is this not, after all, what you wanted?”
“No!” he cried vehemently, unable to prevent himself and using another rhetorical question from me as an invitation to speak; the sight of this handsome man reduced almost to floods of tears threatening to make me return to my intention to sling a leg over him that his lips may supply the likewise flooded Indian pussy of his former servant a thorough and worshipful licking. “It’s the last thing I ever wanted.”
I gave him an innocent stare.
“Then, if this is the case, why on earth would you have sent your wife a story describing such a situation?”
He had to have gone over the same question in his head a thousand times, I knew, and come up with the same answer each time.
“I… I’d been drinking… Who knows what I was thinking,” he almost wailed, appealing it seemed to a higher power other than the young Indian girl his wife had left to supervise him.
And, absent higher power or not, it was true.
He had been drinking.
Of that there could be no refutation.
But, as for thinking?
It is fair to say that, and no matter the extenuating circumstances of alcohol, he had not been doing any of that at all.
That distinction, I am both proud and grateful to say, had been all mine…
On that fateful night when everything changed for both me and my attractive employers, I had taken myself from my ground-floor room at the back of the house to fetch myself a glass of water.
I still give thanks, and believe I always shall, to the thirst that awoke me at such an opportune time.
On passing the study of “Mr Parkes” – as I still called him at this time – I noticed the light beneath his door and realised that even though the time had passed 2am he was still at his computer.
It was not uncommon for him to keep such late hours, normally with a bottle of two of Rioja and a few vodkas if the evidence I was left to clear away the following morning spoke truly, but on this particular night he must really have had the mood upon him.
A fact explaining how he did not notice me in the darkened kitchen doorway as he stumbled from his study to virtually crawl upstairs to the bedroom he shared with his wife.
And leaving the light blazing in his study in the process.
Unfortunately for him, it was not the only thing he neglected to switch-off.
When I heard the bedroom door close and was certain he would soon be sleeping the sleep of the drunkard and dead to the world for many hours, I moved to his study and switched off the light like the dutiful housekeeper I was – at least for his wife.
It was at this point that the glare still coming from his computer screen alerted me to the fact he had neglected to turn shut-down after finishing and I moved to his desk with the intent of performing the task for him – tutting to myself with disapproval at the empty bottle of Rioja and drained wine-glass next to his keyboard along with a tumbler that had, no doubt, once been filled with the vodka he enjoyed so much.
I cannot say with any accuracy when the idea came to me but, from experience with the laptop in my room and purchased with Suzanna’s help - and when I saw he had attempted to shut-down having neglected first to save a draft of his latest fictional masterpiece and his machine had asked him to do so before it went on to do so - I realised that he had given me free access to his computer.
An unknowing gift that was about to alter his life and that of his wife.
Together with mine, of course.
Though it would be only the females of the equation who would benefit from the coming change.
Leaving the study door open that I may hear any movement from upstairs and make myself scarce – movement at such a late hour unlikely it has to be said, as he would soon be dead-to-the-world and Suzanna is a sound sleeper herself – I seated myself and began to go through his history.
To say I was amazed would paint nowhere near a vivid enough picture of my astonishment.
The sites and blogs he most visited during the nights locked in his study when he had assured his wife he was busy completing the long overdue best-seller that would put him on the map as a writer, were…
I am sure you will have guessed.
They were sites and blogs for men who found it sexy to be dominated by women!
And, given my own attitude towards them – especially those who were both European and white - not just men who found it sexy.
Empowering, of course, you must take as read.
Many of them were familiar to me and I myself had visited sites such as BDSM Library, Literotica, Diana the Valkyrie and Femdom Cave – though some of the foot-fetish sites were new to me; even if I promised myself they would not prove strangers for much longer than it took to retire to my own room and boot my laptop.
He had also downloaded many pictures from sites such as Only Tease and Vixena, along with other domains featuring women in pantyhose.
These he kept in separate folders he had named to make his particular fancy of the time in the way of women’s legs easier to find:
To my surprise, there was an absence of, what I considered, outright and offensive ePorn and I at least revised upwards my opinion of a man I had grown to dislike, even as my inner-life revolved more and more around certain fantasies of my own in his regard.
Revised them a little, anyhow.
I was, just the same, totally stunned – if in a positive way – by my discovery. The handsome and somewhat macho William Parkes had, after all, shown no visible sign or giveaway clue of finding such assertive women attractive. And you may trust that I had been on the lookout for such things.
Quite the opposite seemed to hold true if the way he took the lead with his wife in all decisions, save those relating to her business, spoke truly.
Which, obviously, it did not.
At least not in terms of his fantasy life.
By far the biggest collection of folders, however, dealt not with pictures of clothed women in pantyhose but with the fiction of female domination.
And it did not take long for me to track down their source.
In a folder marked “Passwords”, he had conveniently given me access to all his memberships – even if it were Rioja and vodka that had extended the gift of a still booted computer rather than any intention to provide me a diversion on his part.
Along with memberships to sites showcasing “Femdom Videos” he had also taken out a life-membership with the aforementioned “Femdom Cave” which gave him unlimited access to their whole catalogue of fiction that dealt specifically with domination of the male by the female from authors as diverse as Miss Irene Clearmont, Clare Penne and Clarice Darling.
My breath had caught in my throat at this coincidence.
Not three days before, I myself had purchased the same life-membership for myself and read some of the works of those same authors!
Along with, in a fever of lust-inspired leisure time, fiction from Paula Andante, Rebecca Sharp and Shayla Marks, to name a few.
Only that night before sleeping, I had downloaded and started upon a story called “The Inferior” by a writer calling himself Kurt Steiner. A downloading that probably explained the thirst and dry-throat leading me to the kitchen at such an hour. I had all but frigged myself to exhaustion at the writer’s description of a “young Indian housekeeper” who gradually enslaves her handsome English employer who, to add coincidence upon coincidence, just happened to be a writer.
Fate, I would tell myself when back in my room later, was certainly dropping some very heavy hints in my direction.
The same author had also written a number of other tales on the same lines of handsome and, sometimes, successful Europeans dominated by younger and less attractive Indian women and I could not wait to sample more.
Even if I did counsel myself that enjoyment would be all the more potent if I were to take my time and savour the fictional experiences ahead of me.
To my disappointment – later I would revise my reaction upwards when it fell to me to introduce him to the concepts contained in Mr Steiner’s writings - there was no sign of my “master” having downloaded or read any of this author’s fiction; though he had downloaded some novels by a writer called Gudrun Lindstrom who specialised in tales of male-white-slavery in a Middle-East setting.
A location not too far removed, I had told myself by way of encouragement.
As I explored the folders containing his fiction further, I promised to acquaint myself more fully with the work of this Frau Lindstrom.
Along with all the other titles, old and new, to which my membership entitled me.
I had, in fact, already taken advantage of the other perks of membership to ask the advice of the Cave and its resident agony-aunt, Miss Irene Clearmont, on the subject of placing a European man under my complete power.
Her advice was both knowing and wise but, as the good lady herself pointed out, such men did not fall from the skies and advertising for one who sought out such a situation would, she sensed, not prove satisfactory to me.
And now, it was to prove, one had just plummeted to earth and delivered himself into both my clutches and, necessarily, those of his wife.
For even if he had fantasies of a dominant woman I felt sure, having seen him at close-quarters, that the reality would prove far more than he would be able to handle.
A dissatisfaction, assuming he could be placed under my control, that would make my pleasure all the sweeter in exactly the way Miss Irene sensed.
Where was the satisfaction, after all, in being the dominant if the man in question welcomed being dominated in such a way – even if he had only fantasised about such things to that point?
Far better, from my point of view, that he come to hate having to bend his neck in cold reality as he found his masturbatory fantasies far, far, more than he could handle in a way that was… pleasurable.
On that very score, and if I had to pinpoint when the idea first formed – this as I read with ears keened for any movement from above stairs – I would have to say it was while reading a free story he had downloaded of a man who comes clean about his femdom desires to his wife on one drunken night. Only for her to take him up on his proposition in the sober light of the next day’s dawning. This estimable lady taking his desires and using them to give him far more than he had ever wanted in his cosy fantasy world.
And certainly more than he could take.
This, having not pictured Suzanna’s husband ever taking enjoyment from what I did to him in my own fantasies, pleased me; guessing correctly, and as aforementioned, that what he found exciting in his head might not prove so thrilling in reality.
It was, I believe, at this point that I set the ball rolling.
Something I did by opening Microsoft Outlook and accessing his email.
Specifically, to begin with, his “Sent-Items”.
What better way to send his wife a message with attachments purporting to be him than by actually mimicking the tone and words he had used in one of his own emails to his loving wife?
After I had done just that, I retraced my steps by returning to the work he had neglected to save and had prevented the computer from shutting down and repeating the same process.
After that, and still with neither sound nor movement from upstairs where my intended victim and his innocent and unsuspecting wife slept, I switched the study light back on as the drunk had left it and took myself back to my room.
Together with the glass of forgotten water that had been my initial, and most fortuitous, reason for being awake at such a time in the first place.
Though when I reached my single-cot I was, as you can well imagine, far too animated and excited to sleep.
I will leave it to your imaginations to picture just how I spent my time before I finally found the sweet embrace of Morpheus.
“Do you like it when I stroke your balls, Willie?”
There was only one answer he wanted to give and it would have arrived, I knew, with many profanities.
Though I also knew he had grown too afraid of the power Suzanna now allowed me to wield over him as an extension of her own to utter it.
“I know how frustrating it must be for you not to take little Willie in your hand and please yourself as and when you want, but is it not nice to have your good Sahila at least caress your aching balls in such a way?”
He contented himself with silence in the hope I would refrain from questioning him further on the subject.
A hope that was no hope at all.
“Because I like to do this for you, Willie,” I told him as he kept his shaved head studiously averted that he may not see his humiliation mirrored back at him from my dark and lustful eyes. “It gives me a nice warm feeling to know that I can touch you in such a way and you can do or say nothing to prevent me.”
I paused for a moment.
“Unless, of course, you wish me to tell Ms Suzanna you have disrespected me.”
The man below who I fully accepted was my superior in terms of age, looks and education, was in a hell of mental agony and I could see him fighting back the urge – and not for the first time – to tear my hand away, leap from the bed, and slap me senseless for daring to touch and speak to him in such a way.
My next words, had they been required to do so, made any such intention stillborn:
“After all, you would not want your lovely caring wife to put you over her knee again and spank your bare bum with her hairbrush, would you?”
I saw his eyes close as the memory had its usual effect and he cringed at the image of himself draped over the shapely and powerful legs of his wife – pantyhosed in just the way he liked; and deliberately so – as she prepared to deliver him his very first correctional spanking.
And deliver it in the presence of the young Indian woman towards whom he had one taken such a superior attitude.
“My, how she made you squeal,” I giggled. “Just as if you were a young girl over a strong man’s lap in the way of those old American films.”
His cheeks were fairly throbbing with humiliation now.
Or should I say: more humiliation.
“And with your young Indian housekeeper there to witness it too!” I finished in a tone that expressed disbelief that he, of all people, could have allowed himself to be treated in such a way.
Now it was my eyes that closed to the memory – even if my response was of a different and more elevated kind. Despite all the changes in their relationship that had taken place so swiftly in the time leading up to this first “attitude correction”, as Suzanna had described it, he had still not believed his wife could possibly be serious when she announced her intention to correct his “bad boy” behaviour in the “time-honoured way”. When she had told him he would be receiving the spanking in front of the person he had sworn at – me! – I truly thought she had gone too far and his fear of the divorce, with the subsequent homeless and penniless condition to which he would be reduced, would not prove so terrifying to him he would accept her emasculating him further in front of their… servant.
I need not have worried.
First he had asked to speak with his wife in private.
Then he told her that what she expected of him was not just unfair but completely and utterly perverted.
The correlation she drew between how she intended correcting his rudeness to me and the material he had been found surfing on the computer soon took care of this particular attempt to shame her for treating him in such a “perverted” way.
The attempts that followed availing him nothing as he succumbed to the inevitable and finally, cheeks fiery red with shame, lowered both trousers and underpants to reveal an average sized cock to the eyes of his Indian housekeeper for the first time.
This before lowering himself over the hosed thighs of the wife who was now the authority figure in his life.
Along with the young Indian girl to whom she was devolving more and more responsibility when it came to… managing… him.
And thus began the most exciting experience of my young life to that point.
In my mind’s-eye, as he himself pictured the same scene to which my words had referred, I saw Suzanna’s hand rise and fall to bring down the flat back of her hairbrush upon his tender behind.
Again and again.
And she did not hold back as all her pent-up fury with him for his nights spent pleasuring himself before a computer-screen as she slept upstairs, innocent and frustrated, before rising the following morning for yet more toil at her place of work that kept him in laptops, red wine and vodka.
Just the same, and apart from a few supressed grunts, the Englishman being spanked over the black pantyhose-clad thighs of his wife she was wearing more and more these days despite the heat and humidity, even in air-conditioned UB City, did his best not to provide either her or the almost delirious Indian girl watching with the pleasure of hearing his pain.
An intention that did not survive the relentless and surprisingly powerful rise and fall of his wife’s arm as it brought the back of the brush down upon formerly white buttocks that were already glowing the most angry and vibrant red.
As my memory savoured the screams and pleas for his wife to stop he had soon found himself unable to prevent - this before she had sent him, a blubbering wreck, to place his nose in the corner of the room while he knelt to reflect on his disrespect of “my lovely Sahila” - my thoughts again gave thanks for the night thirst that had led me to his study and the computer he had left on without knowing it.
Not that I ever intended to tell Suzanna of my full part in his downfall, of course, but that withholding did not mean my private thoughts could not return to those early stages in the downfall of William Parkes.
A downfall my initial sending of that email with attachments from his AOL account had set in motion…
The following morning was Saturday and a beginning of the weekend Suzanna Parkes looked forward to immensely after a hard week at her UB City offices.
Though as she entered the kitchen where I was preparing her usual coffee and cereal, feeling fully awake and excited despite my own less than complete sleep, she gave no sign of any such positive anticipation.
But then I told myself, knowing her routine as I did by this time, she would have checked her emails first thing and be in… shocking… receipt of one in particular.
“Good morning, Mrs Parkes,” I greeted her as usual – still on a semi-formal basis with her at this time, you understand? “I hope you slept well.”
“Thank you, Sahila,” she said with a wan smile, though as pleasant to me as ever. “Yes, I did. Though I don’t feel too refreshed, I must say.”
In a silk kimono that revealed a thrilling ravine between womanly and firm breasts, long, smooth and tanned, legs crossed one over the other and shapely enough to make me wonder why her husband would ever feel the need to gaze at computer generated images picturing the legs of other women – pantyhose clad or otherwise – she did not look exactly unrefreshed to my not exactly without envy eyes.
“What is it?” I asked, all concern despite any discernible physical distress being in evidence. “Are you feeling unwell? Is there anything I can get you?”
She seemed about to say something then thought better of it as I felt a few pangs of guilt for what I had allowed myself to do to her life and marriage - simply in the hope of achieving self-fulfilment of a kind.
“I’m okay, Sahila, no need to worry.”
“Just the usual man-trouble,” she added with a game wink that made me smile and provided the opening I was looking for.
“I hope he did not snore too loudly?” I asked jestingly, manner usual for us on the mornings after her husband had partaken a little too heavily.
Her usual and self-mockingly put-upon good humour was almost entirely absent this time:
“If only that had been all,” she said, almost to herself.
“I did notice that he had drank a little more than usual when I cleared the bottles and glasses from his study this morning, if I am not being too forward in saying this, Mrs Parkes.”
“No, no,” she came in quick to quell my supposed misgivings for having spoken out of turn. “You really shouldn’t have to wake up to his… mess… anyhow.”
“It is no trouble, Mrs Parkes,” I assured her. “I am glad to do it and it is, after all, what you pay me for.”
“Just the same, you shouldn’t have to pick up after a… a drunk.”
It was the first time she had spoken of him in such a way and I knew my email had caused a revision of opinion on the subject of her handsome husband.
Now all I needed was to get her on to the computer.
I had left it on from last night and needed to get her in front of it before the “drunk” woke up – though on that score, at least, I knew I had a good few hours yet.
“I am sure it was because he stayed up later than usual at his work that he drank more than he would have normally.”
My excuse did not, understandably, appear to cut much ice with her and I continued in loyal housekeeper mode – even if my loyalty was only to her:
“He does work very hard when you are at the office and in the evenings when you are asleep,” I assured her. “I know it is not my place to comment, but I sometimes think he is at the computer too much and becomes over-tired.”
“I know this is so,” I went on, straining to keep my excitement under control and my voice normal as I placed her cappuccino and muesli in front of her, “because when I woke this morning he had left the light on in his study and his computer was also turned-on still.”
The eyes in that severe yet attractive face flickered and I prayed she was following where my words led.
“I did not switch it off, Mrs Parkes”, I told her, going on to explain: “as I did not wish to be responsible for him losing his work if he had not saved it.”
The eyes, given his password-protected computer was – or had been – as inaccessible to her as it had been to me before he left it switched on, had stopped flickering and were alive with interest now.
“I hope I did not do wrong?”
“Not at all, Sahila,” she said, already preoccupied with her own thoughts and rising, cappuccino in hand, to move in the direction of her husband’s study. “You’re a very thoughtful girl. I’ll go and do it now.”
I may leave it to your own thoughts to divine just how much more thoughtful that “very thoughtful” girl became as she set about her morning chores and her mistress set about the contents of her husband’s computer and its incriminating hard-drive.
End of Part One
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story continues in It Was Just His Way of Relaxing 2: New Roles