Gromet's PlazaTG/CD Stories

The Consultants 3.11

by Charlotte Arabella Graham

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© Copyright 2012 - Charlotte Arabella Graham - Used by permission

Storycodes: Solo-M; F/mm; pvc; maid; heels; caught; cd; fem; dungeon; catsuit; bond; bdsm; crop; punish; true; cons/reluct; X

story continued from part 2b

Part 3: Chapter 11

His first week as Charlotte Graham, computer consultant, passed in a blur. Monday morning Charles had spent two hours, ostensibly in getting ready but also to a very large extent in screwing up his courage. Leslie had fussed around in what seemed an uncharacteristic manner, helped Charles with his makeup and then insisted on driving him round to the office.

“Just to make sure I don’t do a runner,” Charles had mordantly thought.

Saturday morning found Charles up early having decided that he must try to make the flat more presentable, sort out the piles of books that had been dumped after the northern visit, put clothes in order and make the place feel like home. He soon decided that before anything else everywhere needed a good spring clean, the flat having been empty for over a year. On an impulse he decided to put on his French maid outfit. This comprised a short dress made of black PVC with lace trimmed white PVC collar and cuffs to the long sleeves. There was a matching white PVC apron and round cap both, again, lace trimmed. The whole ensemble was finished off by fishnet tights and a pair of frilly panties that had the effect of holding the dresses skirt out at forty-five degrees.

He had not worn that particular outfit for some time. Now he was surprised what a difference the waspie and padded bra he had adopted as standard issue underwear made to the fit. The dress was now quite loose round the waist so he was able to pull it in nicely using the apron strings. At the bust it was a different matter. There it was stretched to seeming busting point and he had to resort to threading a piece of string through the dress’ back zip and pulling it over his shoulder in order to coax the slider up while using both hands to hold the sides together. Finally it closed with a rush leaving Charles panting after the struggle. Settling the cap on his head he went in search of shoes.

Somewhere he had a pair of fifteen-plus-centimetre heel black patents, with simple padlock fastening ankle straps but the thinnest of heels that went well with the maid’s costume. While hunting for them he came across bag containing a broad steel-studded leather dog collar. Recalling he had worn it with the dress he fastened it round his neck. At last he found the shoes and fastened them on. Then, returning to the bag he selected another of the small locks and used it to complete the maid/slave effect by poking it through one of the collar strap’s holes and the dress’s zip slider so it could not be undone nor the dress removed, without the key.

Thus dressed Charles set to with his flat cleaning. As he worked he persuaded himself that it was an eminently practical outfit; the short skirt did not get in the way and the PVC material did not mind getting splashed and would easily wipe clean. He was also somewhat amused and secretly pleased, remembering how difficult they had seemed when he had first got them, the shoes now seemed to be causing him no trouble at all. Indeed, he began to think that, having not been out of really high-heels for ten days now wearing lower ones would soon be the problem. After a couple of busy hours the results of his efforts were beginning to show. The flat was dusted, most of the books were stowed in place or at least in tidy piles, the clothes put away with some pretence of a system.

He decided to reward himself with a coffee. No sooner had he sat down to enjoy a well-earned ten-minute’s rest when the doorbell rang.

“Who the hell?” thought Charles, then realised that it was the inner door and could only be Leslie.

He heaved himself off the sofa, made his way to the door and, feeling rather sheepish in his maid’s get-up, opened it a crack and peered out. Leslie took one step in then stopped in her tracks and stared at Charles. There was a moment’s pause. Then she snapped.

“Is your mistress at home?” and “Where on earth did you do your training? Don’t you know to curtsey when you see me or are spoken to?”

Startled by her tone, Charles did an involuntary little bob.

Almost in hysterics, Leslie burst out laughing. She put out a hand to the very embarrassed Charles for support.

“I sorry, Charlotte” she apologised, between stifled giggles, as they made their way back to the sofa and sat down again. “You were such a surprise. I’ve come to expect to see you as highly professional business girl. I really had no idea that you had the French maid outfit. I’m really sorry Please forgive me,” she pleaded. “If it’s any consolation you really do look the part. Actually I came to see if you were getting on all right and had everything you need and to suggest that, if you like, you might like we could go out to get you more things, toiletries, clothes, and the like.”

“Oh, it’s all right.” volunteered Charles magnanimously. “Can I get you a coffee while we talk; I was just going to have one.”

“That would be nice,” said Leslie, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. “Black, no sugar, please.” She called after Charles as she watched his frilly bottom disappear into the kitchen.

He reappeared a few minutes later with two steaming cups on a, tray balanced on one hand in what he assumed was the approved manner, waving slightly on his stilettos.

“I thought,” he said, concentrating on the cups and willing the coffee not to spill, “that it was only the computer fraternity that drank coffee like this.”

“We girls have to think of our figures,” replied Leslie, accepting the cup that Charles offered to her with a curtsey before sitting down himself.

For a minute or two Leslie pensively stirred her coffee, clearly undecided about what she wanted to say.

“Charlotte,” she eventually began; then hesitated again.

“Yes?” Charles said trying to encourage her and wondering what it was that was causing the uncharacteristic reticence.

“Tell me, Charles,” that was the first time in ten-day that she had used his male name, “seeing you like this,” she flicked the skirt of his dress with a finger, “ made me wonder, well, I mean, do you like wearing your French maid’s outfit?”

“What a funny question,” he thought, “I wonder why she was so reluctant to ask? There has to be something else bugging her.” Then out loud, “Well it’s fun, it fits the rôle, it was originally designed for the job, well sort of, perhaps not the vinyl model, and I don’t have so many things that I can risk spoiling them. Why do you ask?”

“Well, it’s like this,” said Leslie, at last coming to the point. “Would you mind awfully helping me with a client this evening. He’s a very good client, but he has asked for golden showers, you know for me to pee on him. That always seems to take a bit of organising to be able to do it at the right moment.” Leslie hesitated again and chewed her lip, “Seeing you in that dress gave me an idea. What I wondered was, well, you would mind wearing what you have on now and then pretend to be my maid and bring me a pot of that famous herb tea when I ring for you?”

At first Charles was taken aback by the proposal. It was all very well renting the flat from Leslie and he was grateful for her help and advice but getting involved with her professional activities was another matter. She looked at him pleadingly with big eyes.

“Oh, well,” he thought, “it’s only a walking on part and it might be interesting to see exactly what she does get up to.” Then to Leslie, “All right then, I’ll be your maid, but I wouldn’t do it for anyone else”

“Charlotte, you’re an angel,” was her reply. “And I hope that you wouldn’t do it for anyone else either. If that’s settled, how about going out now before you change your mind? I’ll buy you lunch somewhere nice then we will have plenty of time for shopping?”

“Well, not too much shopping,” replied Charles, “I’ve already spent two month’s fees on new things.”

“And I bet,” retorted Leslie, “that you feel you haven’t got anything to wear.”

“Yes, it true,” said Charles, “I was wondering what to change into now, I would like to give my work-day things a rest and I’m not sure I want to wear Amber’s rubber dress that is about the only other thing I have. Apart from being a bit over the top it is a devil to get in and out of if you want to try anything else on.”

“Tell, you what;” responded Leslie, “why don’t you borrow my leather Montana suit? Amber told me how much you like it. We’re much the same size though if anything the short skirt will look even sexier on you with your longer legs.”


That evening Charles changed, with some reluctance, back into his French maid’s uniform. It had been fun putting it on while attending to the flat and sharing the joke with Leslie but he was still not at all sure about appearing before a third party.

“Strange, really,” he thought as he was now pretty comfortable as Charlotte at the office. “Well, I promised Leslie I would do it for her and without her help I would be in a real mess and any way it’s only a walking-on part. It will all be over in next to no time,” he told himself for the umpteenth time.

He checked in the mirror, gave his pinny a tweak to get it straight and set out cautiously down the steep stairs leading down from his flat to Leslie’s floor, mentally grumbling to himself as to why he had chosen to wear that particular pair of vertiginous heels.

He could hear the sound of the television in the lounge. Knocking lightly on the door he entered. Leslie was lounging on a settee watching without much enthusiasm the news, “Politicians!” he heard her say in exasperation at some news item or other. Leslie was already dressed for her evenings work in a medium weight black latex catsuit with attached open-face hood from which issued her hair in a long ponytail. At least it may have been hers. Charles was still not sure of the real colour of Leslie’s hair. It seemed to be different every day and he had almost come to the conclusion that she might in fact be bald, like Amber, and wore a different wig each day. But then he remembered seeing her in bed the previous weekend. She had had hair then and presumably, didn’t sleep in a wig. This time anyway the ponytail was bright red.

The bodice of the suit was boned and doubled as a firm corset, which explained why she wasn’t sitting on the low settee; she really couldn’t bend much in the middle. The slender waist given by the combination of her own natural slimness and the compression of the corset was accentuated by the pair of over-large moulded breasts.

“No way can Leslie fill them,” Charles thought, glancing down at his padded bosom.

He held out the hem of his skirt and did a little curtsey.

“Will I do, Ma’am,” he asked.

Leslie zapped the television and rolled over to look at him.

“You look fine,” she said, propping her head on one hand. “Do me a curtsey again.” Charles repeated his curtsey and added a twirl for good measure. Leslie clapped her hands in mock admiration, “Bravo, bravo, encore,” she cried, getting up with a bit of a struggle.

“Turn round with your back to me will you dear.” Charles turned round. “Now bend over and touch your toes.” Charles started to bend then, realising that his short skirt was going straight up in the air, grabbed behind him to try to preserve his ‘modesty’. Leslie nearly went into hysterics. “You’re really great,” she gasped through her laughter, “I just love the frilly panties. If you can do that tonight you’ll be the star of the show. Be a good maid. Go and get me a drink and bring one for yourself.”

Charles didn’t know whether to be pleased or embarrassed, but deciding that, for the moment, he had go along with the saucy French maid theme, went to the kitchen, wriggling his bottom as he did so in what, he hoped, was the approved manner. When he returned with the drinks on a tray Leslie was back on the settee. He handed her a glass and waited, wondering what he should do next. Leslie, realising his predicament, patted the settee sat the side of her.

“Oh, do sit down Charlotte; you’re a friend, not my slave”.

He sat down.

“Speaking of slaves and the like,” he said, sipping his G&T, “it occurred to me while I was getting dressed that, for the rôle you’ve cast me in, perhaps I ought to have an ankle chain or something.”

Leslie’s eyes lit up as she turned to look at him.

“Wouldn’t you mind, really, it would be great for the scene but I didn’t like to ask.”

“Having gone this far, what’s a bit of chain?” Charles offered magnanimously.

Leslie hurried on, “If you really don’t mind dear, would you mind awfully if I redid your makeup? It’s a bit too ‘Successful Business Woman’ for the part.”

“Pouting red lips and big eyes,” suggested Charles making a face at Leslie.

“Yes, that sort of thing,” replied Leslie, rather too eagerly it seemed to Charles. “Now drink up darling and we can go down to the office,” she went on, “there’s just time for me to finish off before our client arrives and I have to do the ‘grand entrance’ thing. And, anyway, it will best if you wait there. I can call you on the bell and you won’t have so far to come.”

They made their way down the grand staircase. Leslie have almost as much trouble walking as Charles because of the five centimetre platform soles and nearly twenty centimetre heels of the knee boots she had chosen, knowing that her client was tall and wanting to tower over him. Indeed Charles felt distinctly small at the side of her and said so.

“Mistresses must always dominate,” she replied to Charles’s comment, while concentrating on her own walking.

Leslie suggested that Charles sit at her desk while she redid his makeup before going off to find some chains for him.

“The old bell pull is really a bit of an antique but it’s just right for now. I’ll give you a ring when I get down, just to make sure,” she called as she disappeared from sight on the descending lift.

Charles looked round him, simultaneously wondering at the collection of erotica and how come he had moved in such short time from computer consultant extraordinaire to dominatrix’s maid. The bell rang, bringing him out of his reverie with a start. He heard Leslie’s voice from a speaker grill on the desk.

“Did the bell work?” it asked.

“It’s just fine,” said Charles, “Roger and out.”

Leslie reappeared with a wicker basket containing several length of chain and straps rather than just the one that Charles had anticipated.

“How many people are you going to dress-up in that lot,” he exclaimed?

“Only you, Charlotte dear,” purred Leslie. “First will you put on these gloves, close-up your hands look a bit too, well masculine.” She handed Charles a pair of elbow-length black rubber gloves. He wriggled his hand in to one of them; it was a tight fit; only to encounter a problem with the sleeves of his dress, they were too close-fitting to get the gloves up inside while wearing it, while pulling them up on the outside didn’t seem to look right. There was nothing for it but to take the dress off and put the gloves on first.

“If you are in a hurry do you really want me to wear the gloves?” asked Charles. “Because I’ll have to take my dress off and I can’t do that without unlocking the zip slider from my collar and the key for that is in the flat!”

“Oh, I must have a something that will undo that simple lock,” said Leslie, quickly looking through the keys on her châtelaine. “Here let’s try this.”

In quick time the dress was off, the gloves on and smoothed up his arms and dress, pinny and collar reinstalled. Leslie was obviously getting a little anxious.

“We don’t have much time, Clients are always exactly on time. Being late or early invariably invokes punishment.”

Leslie knelt down and fastened cuffs linked by forty-five centimetres of chain, round Charles’ ankles. They were constructed as a double layer, a broad strap next to the body to spread the force, then over that, a narrower strap with a substantial buckle. Each cuff she fixed with a small pad lock similar to the ones on his bootstraps. In the middle of the chain, hanging from an extra link, was a small bell. Charles was about to protest but Leslie got in first.

“The bell’s so that I know that my maid is working and not shirking and just sitting about doing nothing to earn her keep. It must be almost unique,” she went on, looking up at him as he helped her to her feet, “to have a mistress on her hands and knees in front of her maid. Now hold out your arms.”

Charles held out his arms. Leslie placed a cuff of the same pattern as those now circling his ankles, round each wrist. Rummaging in her basket, she produced two short lengths of chain and three small padlocks. One end of each chain she locked to the wrist cuffs then, taking the two free ends, she locked these to the D-ring in the front of Charles’s studded dog collar. The net effect was that he could only get his hands down to the level of his boobs.

“That’s going to make making your tea difficult,” Charles observed.

“You’ll have manage,” Leslie replied rather unhelpfully, “that is the fate of the serving wenches of cruel mistresses! You ought to have a nametag on your collar too. Something like ‘Trainee maid Charlotte’ on one side and ‘property of Leslie Weston’ on the other. I’ll get one when the shops open. And there’s the mews door bell,” a red light flashed on the desk and a TV monitor turned on to reveal a man, head bowed, standing out side the door.

“Excuse me,” said Leslie, roughly pushing Charles to one side so as to get at the controls built into the desk, “I have work to do.”


Charles watched on the monitors as Leslie let a man through the interlocking doors, first into the corridor and then to the changing room. He reappeared, naked, a few minutes later to make his way, on hands and knees, to the dungeon proper where he knelt, head bowed, on the stone flagged floor in front of the dais.

“Must be off,” said Leslie after he had remained frozen on the spot for five minutes or so, “It will be about half an hour before I need to call you for the first time to give you your orders. Keep an eye on the dungeon monitor. There’s a button on my throne that will turn on that red lamp,” she pointed to the desk. “I’ll turn it on a minute or two before I ringing the old bell. That way it will let you get a head start coming down the stairs so I am not kept waiting longer than necessary.”

Charles hadn’t much liked the proposal that he should have a nametag and was half inclined to have rebelled at the concepts of being ‘give orders’ and ‘not keeping Leslie waiting’ but she had stepped onto the lift platform and was already half out of sight.

“Better get things ready,” Charles thought to himself and hobbled slowly to the kitchen to pre-boiled a kettle of water so as to save time later and to lay out a tray with cup, saucer, lemon and sugar basin; though he knew Leslie did not take sugar the bowl seemed to be part of the set.

Charles returned to the study and for a while watched the scene that was slowly unfolding down.

Initially Leslie prowled round the kneeling man, occasionally flicking at him with her riding crop. At one stage she appeared to ask him a question and then, unsatisfied with the reply, grabbed him by the hair and, yanking his head back, slapped him across the face. Now he was fastened, still kneeling, to a wooden frame mounted on casters. The frame comprised two parallel, horizontal rails, ten centimetres square by 180 centimetres long. These were joined by three cross-members and a lightly padded central section, fifteen centimetres wide, raising some forty-five centimetres above the rails. The man lay on his stomach on this central section with his legs fastened to the rail by straps at knees and ankles so that his shins were horizontal. At the other end, wrists and elbows were similarly fastened down making his forearms level. Leslie reached between his legs and fastened a strap in a loop round the root of his penis, between body and testicles then, pulling down, attached the other end to the centre of a cross member. The final adjustments had been to raise the central section and wind the rails apart on screws, tensioning his arms and legs and pulling the latter apart in a wide V. The additional effect was to try to pull his testicles off or, at least, put them under such strain that the slightest movement was agony.

Picking up a paddle Leslie proceeded to beat his exquisitely exposed posterior in a slow regular cadence. Charles could see the man struggling to resist the reflex to flinch as each blow because of the pain that any movement would inflict elsewhere. After twenty or so blows she stopped, and momentarily disappeared from sight leaving her client still strapped to his frame. She reappeared carrying a bucket of water and a packet, which she paraded in front of him. She emptied the packet into the bucket. It was a loose granular substance. “Salt?” wondered Charles. She walked round the man again and then poured the contents of the bucked over his smarting back side. A shudder went through him as the salty water, if that is what it was, bit home. Then the whole cycle began over again this time using a whip to criss-cross the areas already made livid red by the paddle.

Intellectually, Charles could understand how this gradual build-up was just the thing for certain clients but as a spectator sport the slow pace became rather boring after a time and his attention wandered, oscillating between his own personal situation and the technical problems of his work.

Suddenly, Charles noticed that the red light was lit on the console. How long it had been like that he had no idea. He started out of the study but had got no further than the door when the bell went.

“So much for a head start,” he thought as he tried to hurry, impeded as he was by the having his ankles linked with chain. It was several minutes before he reached the dungeon and, picking his route carefully so as to avoid the puddles of water on the dungeon floor, stood before Leslie, seated on her throne, and curtsied as best he could, unable to hold out his skirt because of his chained hands.

Leslie was tapping her foot.

“Where have you been,” snapped Leslie with feigned anger. “Or was it real?” Charles wondered. “You have kept me waiting. I will see to it that you are suitably punished later.” She picked up her riding crop that a few moments ago she had been using on her client and flexed it menacingly. “But now I want a pot of tea. Immediately!” she shouted, cracking the riding crop against her booted leg.

Charles curtsied again then, as he was about to turn to leave, decided that, like royalty, Leslie on her throne should not see the back of servants and instead backed away unsteadily to the door. Though the Queen may not have seen his back he was acutely aware that her client, still secured to the whipping frame was intensely watching his wriggling bottom as he coped with backwards steps on eighteen-centimetre heels.

Leslie noticed.

“How dare you take your eyes off your Mistress to look at my worthless maid,” she barked and, picking up the paddle proceeded to give the man’s bottom an extra helping, the sound of the rhythmic pounding echoing down the corridor as Charles made his way up stairs.

Charles returned as quickly as he could, conscious that the best he could do would be at least five minutes.

“I expect I will be told off for being slow,” he mused, “if only as part of the game.”

Sure enough, when he did arrive back at the dungeon he was treated to a stream of criticism for his lack of speed, deportment and everything else. He knelt to place the tray on a side table to which Leslie had pointed.

“Well, are you going to pour me a cup or aren’t you?” she demanded as he stood up again.

He poured out a cup, and went to take it to Leslie. Balancing it, so as not to spill anything, took 110% of his concentration to negotiate the not quite even surfaces of the slabs that floored the dungeon so he failed to notice that water had trickled close to the dais. Stepping on a particularly slippery slab his feet went from under him as he clutched the precious saucer the cup together with its hot contents flew through the air to land in Leslie’s lap; the former, miraculously unbroken but it contents spilled over her.

“Sorry,” blurted out Charles, trying to get to his feet.

“Sorry!” screamed back Leslie, “Sorry! I’ll say you will be!” She jumped up with one hand sweeping the tea off her lap where it had formed little balls against the rubber of the catsuit while grabbing her riding-crop with the other. Leslie turned to her client.

“What happens to maids that have been unbelievably clumsy?” She asked in a voice that smouldered with menace.

“They have to be punished,” was the whispered answer. Leslie lifted his head by putting the tip of her crop under his chin.

“Say that again clearly so that this worthless slut can hear,” she ordered, pointing at Charlotte

“They have to be punished,” he reiterated more loudly.

“They have to be punished,” Leslie intoned, then over her shoulder to Charles, “Do you hear that, slut, they have to be punished.”

“And how shall I punish it?” she demanded.

“Spank her,” was the reply with a trace too much enthusiasm for Charles’s liking.

“There,” she turned to Charles and stated to prowl round him, letting the end of the crop drag on his dress as she did so, “even that stinking toad knows that you must be punished.” As she came round to his side she addressed her client again.

“And how many times shall I spank her,” she asked.

“Twenty times?” he replied.

“Twenty times, do you hear that Charlotte, that toad thinks that I should spank you twenty times. But he’s soft.” she took a cut at him with the crop. “I say double it! Forty times and then more till I’m certain you will never be so clumsy ever again.”

Without saying another word she pointed toward the horizontal bars at the side of the room. Charles turned and moved slowly towards them, unsure what was to happen next

The horizontal bars, made of shiny mahogany, were each about one metre twenty long between two supporting pillars. The top-most bar, around waist high, had a sixty-centimetre wide padded central cushion. Hanging down from this upper bar was a five-centimetre wide brown leather strap with a buckle at the opposite side of the cushion, to be brought around the waist of anyone so unfortunate to be bent over the bar. The second bar, perhaps sixty centimetres lower and thirty further back, was used to hold hands in place with two wrist straps, one near each end. Along the floor at intervals were several eyebolts to provide a method of securing the victim’s ankles, dependent only on how far it was decided to spread its legs.

Leslie bent Charles over the top bar and fastened the strap round his waist, then went to deal with his hands that, still attached by chain to his collar pulled his head down still further. As she bent over she whispered.

“Look, I’ve got to create the impression of punishing you or it will ruin everything.”

Charles was about to say that she was about to ruin him but thought better of it as Leslie when on, pretending to fumble with a buckle in order to gain time.

“I’ll give you two slaps as lightly as I can without obviously faking it, then turn him round so he can’t see. Then I can just thump the frame while you call out, okay.”

“I guess so,” murmured the now immobilised Charles as Leslie fastened his ankles to the floor.

Peering, upside-down between his outstretched legs, Charles could see the client watching, with mounting excitement, every step of the drama as it unfolded. Leslie walked over to the latter and retrieved the paddle she had been using on his posterior an hour before then, for the benefit of both of them, flexed it between her hands.

Returning with a paddle, she folded back the skirt of his maid’s dress and pulled down his panties as much as his outstretched legs would permit, carefully arranging them to expose the round of his buttocks extruded by the bottom of his corset while continuing to conceal, from the client at least, his male machinery.

Whack! She hit him on the left cheek of his bottom. Charles screamed out and bucked against the straps that held him secure but not tight. Before he had time to think, “If that’s light, then what is heavy,” a second blow fell to the right.

Leslie stopped and turned to her client proper.

“You have not earned right to watch my maid being punished,” she said. Then, grabbing the frame, she pushed it on its casters to a corner of the dungeon from which the horizontal bars were out of sight.

“Are you alright,” she asked when she returned to her ‘maid’.

“No. What do you think,” said Charles angrily.

“Oh, don’t be a cry baby,” Leslie chided, “I only gave you two light tapes. Now come on, for the sake of my reputation with a very important client, lets simulate the other thirty-eight, or so. When I slap the frame, you pull at the straps to make the thing rattle and shout. Here we go.”

The charade over, Leslie turned her client round again then released Charles from the bars. However, his punishment was not quite over. She handed him the bucket, which she had refilled and a floor cloth.

“Clean up that mess,” she ordered pointing to the mixture of water and tea on the floor, “then go to my room and wait for me there. I haven’t finished with you yet.”

Then, turning her back on Charles she returned to pick up the threads with her client, conscious of the need to improvise something in place of the golden showers for which she no longer felt the inclination.


Charles returned to Leslie’s lounge with a smarting bottom there to wait, in costume, unable to reach his posterior to comfort it till, a couple of hours later she returned. Leslie stood in the doorway, hands on hips in a ‘Mistress’ pose. Charles, who had been half sitting on and half leaning against an arm of the settee in an essentially unsuccessful attempt to take the weight of his feet without involving his posterior, scrambled to his feet beneath the gaze.

“How dare you be slouching about when I return,” she snapped, “especially after your disgraceful behaviour?”

“And have you also forgotten that you must curtsey when I come into the room and when I speak to you? I don’t know who did your training, but I intend to find out and have them struck off. I can see that I am going to have a busy time licking you into shape as a maid. I was obviously far too lenient with your punishment for being so clumsy in front of such an important client.”

The torrent of criticism continued in the same vein for several minutes until Charles began to feel that, perhaps, he should apologise. He opened his mouth to say something.

“Stop,” she shouted, “you may only speak when I give permission.” Then she burst out laughing, unable to keep up the act any longer. “Oh, Charles,” she said, “you look so crestfallen. Here,” she stepped over to him and stuffed something in to his cleavage. He pulled it out to see what it might be. It was £100 in notes. “That’s a present from my client to you for adding so much to the scene, do you think you could trip up every time”

“Well I never,” said Charles, adding that, despite his still throbbing bum it was a better hourly rate than he could make, even as a top computer consultant.

“Quite true,” said Leslie, “now start earning your fee and get me a G&T while I have a bath or I might want a cut.”

“What about these chains,” asked Charles jangling his wrists.

“Oh, I like my maids in chains,” said Leslie over her shoulder as she headed for the bathroom, “it stops them running away. And, anyway, you need more practice before you next dramatic appearance.”

“By the way,” asked Charles when he was finally released form duty as a maid, “who was tonight’s client? The way you were beating him I hope that he doesn’t have a sitting down job!”

Leslie laughed, “I think he does a lot of his serious work standing up. Actually, he’s a famous Harley Street gynaecologist. He is a very good friend who helped me a lot in the past so I always try to look after him when things get on top of him and he feels the need for power exchange.”


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