The Mammoth Book of Short Erotic Novels (13 page)

“It’s not a problem, Thalie.”

“It’s wrong for a slave to seek her own pleasure, without the consent of her master. You must punish me.”

His heart sinks.

So this is the way it is.

He handcuffs her hands to the bed post and arranges her nude body in the shape of an X across the soft green bed cover. She is not wearing the safety pin. As he widens the angle between her
legs, her cunt gapes.

He hangs the “Don’t Disturb” sign outside the door and leaves her in the room, captive, laid out like an offering. Although not for the maid!

He loiters around the reception area until he finds a suitable male. A German tourist, wealthy-looking but with no taste in clothes. At first, the man does not take him seriously, but he
insists. They share a coffee in the breakfast room. He explains. They do the deal. He gives the German the card key to their room.

He has no wish to watch.

“You have two hours,” he says. “Be out of the room by then. She is handcuffed. I have the keys with me. She will not speak, or cry, or scream.”

“And I . . . ?” asks the German, begging for confirmation of his wildest dreams.

“She is totally yours. Anything you want.”

They are two of the slowest hours of his life. He walks four blocks North, then five blocks South. Peruses every window without even noting their varied contents. When he finally returns, Thalie
is still handcuffed to the bedpost, the taste of another man still leaking from her, dotting her stomach, her face, her breasts.

She smiles at him.

His slave.

That night, he sleeps badly, his mind in tumult.

Sunrise comes early, with a blanket of low clouds waltzing over the top of the highest skyscrapers.

He tells her about the dream.

In it, he has failed abysmally at becoming a master and the only alternative is to become a slave himself. To stay with Thalie, he sends a begging letter to Anne-Louise, offering himself in
exchange for further time with her. His pitiful demeanour makes her laugh but, as a game, she accepts.

Initially, she puts him on a diet, having no need of an overweight slave. Then, when he becomes suitable, she shaves his pubic hair and brands him, a large B carved into his buttocks. He is
allowed to sleep in the same room as Anne-Louise and Thalie, but on the floor, at the foot of their bed, where he is forced to listen to their lovemaking and Thalie’s severe beatings. He is
beaten, too, made to wear an apron and serve their food; if ever he is caught with an erection, he is whipped until he bleeds. But he is happy now, just living under the same room as his companion
of slavery. Eventually, he is allowed to attend the special parties where his role is to suck all the men to hardness before they fuck Thalie, then to lick them clean after they have withdrawn from
her orifices. In turn, she is to prepare the men who bugger him. He is no longer allowed to touch her, only to watch the increasing stations of her degradation. But the punishments get worse and
worse, as he finds it impossible to repress his excitement as his cock invariably reacts shamelessly every time another man penetrates her.

Finally, the circle of masters decree the ultimate punishment at the next party he is to be brought to.

Which is when he awoke.

“A companion in slavery,” Thalie remarks. “Yes, I think that would be quite appropriate for you . . .”

“Would I?”

“But it’s all a dream, you know. Anne-Louise hates men; she would never want you as her slave. If you had a wife to offer in exchange for time with me, maybe then she might entertain
your proposal. Dream on.”

“I will,” he says.

Q & A

“
What did you do when Anne-Louise threw you out?
”

“
I pleaded
,
made a fool of myself
,
threw myself at her feet.
Even begged to be retained
,
if only as a servant
,
so that I may look after her and her
new
,
young mistress
.”

“
Did you meet her
,
this new girl?
”

“
Yes
,
some months later. Tall
,
blonde: everything I wasn’t. New. Virgin territory for Anne-Louise
’
s cruel whims.
”

“
But she didn
’
t allow you to stay on?
”

“
No. I was desperate. I knew my parents would never have me back. I had given up my studies without obtaining any diplomas or qualifications. How could I find a job
,
somewhere to
live? During the two years I had spent with Anne-Louise
,
I had deliberately lost the few friends I had before our encounter. I had nothing. I never even had any more normal clothes to wear.
Anne-Louise had once mentioned
,
almost as a joke
,
a couple who had on two occasions visited her soirées and been witness to my servility and asked where they could find a
similar maid. Maybe I could go and place myself in their service. The idea didn
’
t appeal to me. Become a servant to people I had already privately served as a slave. But I had no other
alternative. Anne-Louise phoned them and a deal was agreed.
”

“
And that
’
s where you are now?
”

“
I
’
ve now worked here two years almost. They leave for work – they are both senior managers for a large insurance company in a nearby town – early in the
morning and my duties are to keep the house clean
,
wash
,
iron
,
dust
,
prepare the food. I am not allowed any mail or telephone calls. I play on the Internet. Watch TV.
They are hard on me. The woman has custody of the padlock key
,
but she is capricious and often declines to set the rings free
,
particularly when I
’
m having my periods. It
amuses her. Most of the time
,
I am just their servant
,
but sometimes they remember my nature and my past
,
usually when they have drunk heavily. He fucks me while she
watches
,
then has me lick her. Christmas last
,
I was seemingly too enthusiastic while he used me extensively and the next day
,
out of jealousy
,
she beat me
badly.
”

“
Do you still hear from Anne-Louise?
”

“
Not often. She keeps in touch
,
though.
”

“
Do you still love her?
”

“
Yes
,
as much as ever.
”

“
Will she ever have you back?
”

“
I live in that hope
,
but I realise how unlikely it is. I
’
m realistic.
”

“
Are you happy?
”

“
Yes
,
in my own way. But living with my owners is boring. The house is in the middle of nowhere. The only contact I have with other human beings is when they take me on holiday
with them. Spain in the summer; a house in the mountains in France near Easter. In Spain
,
I am allowed to wear shorts and bikinis. The padlock is taken off and I am allowed to be naughty. I
fuck boys; with rubber protection, of course. They don
’
t mind, as long as I’m not late back at their villa to cook the meals.
”

“
Can you see your life remaining the same for years to come
,
Thalie? A leading question
,
I know
.”

“
I
’
m only twenty. I am a sub
. . .
But I do harbour hopes of convincing Anne-Louise of giving me to B.
”

“
But he
’
s the man who tried to brand you?
”

“
I know
,
but I think he would be a good master for me.
”

“
It
’
s your life.
”

“
It is.
”

“
And I
’
m no knight in shining armour
,
Thalie. I have no mission in life to change your nature. You touch me
,
though. I feel much tenderness for
you.
”

“
Do you think you could be my new master
,
then?
”

“
I
’
m not sure. Willing to give it my best shot (hear my smile between these lines) . . .
”

“
If you were a true dom
,
you would know already. I don
’
t think you are
,
somehow.
”

“
I
’
m sadly aware of the fact. But I still want to see you. Badly. Can you find a way to get away for a few days? Meet me somewhere? Anywhere? There must be some pretext you
can use
,
a white lie. That aunt in Paris who
’
s left you the deeds of the apartments she owns and rents out
,
for instance. You could invent a reason to go there
,
to
sign legal papers . . . Please
,
Thalie.
”

“
Maybe. Let me think.
”

He packs.

He had asked the day before whether they should purchase a case for the clothes they had bought together, but she declined. She came with nothing and insists she should return to her owners
similarly. It would be suspicious otherwise and, unlike Anne-Louise’s, she does not appreciate their beatings. He realizes he had never even asked her what alibi, what lie she had used to
justify her trip.

He watches as she stuffs the barely-worn chenille jumper, the rainbow skirt, the cream see-through blouse, the stockings and sundry knick-knacks into the hotel room’s wicker waste basket.
He’s packed the cuffs and the strap-on in his own case, although he’s thinking of disposing them in a washroom at the airport. It would be too embarrassing to be searched at
customs.

They take the lift in heavy silence. He settles the bill with his credit card and the doorman hails a cab.

“Newark.”

It’s early morning, ahead of the commuter traffic. The journey barely takes half an hour. Throughout, he holds her hand in his.

Way down his throat, there are a million words he wishes to say, but they break up like flotsam against the rampart of his lips. He knows he hasn’t the eloquence to change her life. Or
his.

Her flight is a whole hour earlier than his.

Her thin, fragile silhouette disappears down the neon-lit corridor that leads to her departure lounge. He has checked: her plane is on time. They haven’t even said goodbye. Before the
bend, she turns, smiles and blows him a kiss.

He knows he will never see her again. The letters will continue for a short time; then they will slow down and a day will come when she just disappears, the property of a new master, who will
forbid all contact with her former life. And his mind will imagine the worst. Violation. Torture. Death. Because the life she has chosen is a one-way street.

And his heart doesn’t own the right passport.

SPANKING THE MAID

Robert Coover

She enters, deliberately, gravely, without affectation, circumspect in her motions (as she’s been taught), not stamping too loud, nor dragging her legs after her, but
advancing sedately, discreetly, glancing briefly at the empty rumpled bed, the cast-off nightclothes. She hesitates. No. Again. She enters. Deliberately and gravely, without affectation, not
stamping too loud, nor dragging her legs after her, not marching as if leading a dance, nor keeping time with her head and hands, nor staring or turning her head either one way or the other, but
advancing sedately and discreetly through the door, across the polished floor, past the empty rumpled bed and cast-off nightclothes (not glancing, that’s better), to the tall curtains along
the far wall. As she’s been taught. Now, with a humble yet authoritative gesture, she draws the curtains open: Ah! the morning sunlight comes flooding in over the gleaming tiles as though
(she thinks) flung from a bucket. She opens wide the glass doors behind the curtains (there is such a song of birds all about!) and gazes for a moment into the garden, quite prepared to let the
sweet breath of morning blow in and excite her to the most generous and efficient accomplishments, but her mind is still locked on that image, at first pleasing, now troubling, of the light as it
spilled into the room: as from a bucket . . . She sighs. She enters. With a bucket. She sets the bucket down, deliberately, gravely, and walks (circumspectly) across the room, over the polished
tiles, past the empty rumpled bed (she doesn’t glance at it), to draw open the tall curtains at the far wall. Buckets of light come flooding in (she is not thinking about this now) and the
room, as she opens the glass doors wide, is sweetened by the fresh morning air blowing in from the garden. The sun is fully risen and the pink clouds of dawn are all gone out of the sky (the time
lost: this is what she is thinking about), but the dew is still on every plant in the garden, and everything looks clean and bright. As will his room when she is done with it.

He awakes from a dream (something about utility, or futility, and a teacher he once had who, when he whipped his students, called it his “civil service”), still
wrapped in darkness and hugged close to the sweet breast of the night, but with the new day already hard upon him, just beyond the curtains (he knows, even without looking), waiting for him out
there like a brother: to love him or to kill him. He pushes the bedcovers back and sits up groggily to meet its challenge (or promise), pushes his feet into slippers, rubs his face, stretches,
wonders what new blunders the maid (where is she?) will commit today. Well. I should at least give her a chance, he admonishes himself with a gaping yawn.

Oh, she knows her business well: to scrub and wax the floors, polish the furniture, make the master’s bed soft and easy, lay up his nightclothes, wash, starch, and mend
the bedlinens as necessary, air the blankets and clean the bathroom, making certain of ample supplies of fresh towels and washcloths, soap, toilet paper, razor blades and toothpaste – in
short, to see that nothing be wanting which he desires or requires to be done, being always diligent in endeavoring to please him, silent when he is angry except to beg his pardon, and ever
faithful, honest, submissive, and of good disposition. The trivial round, the common task, she knows as she sets about her morning’s duties, will furnish all she needs to ask, room to deny
herself, a road (speaking loosely) to bring her daily nearer God. But on that road, on the floor of the bathroom, she finds a damp towel and some pajama bottoms, all puddled together like a
cast-off mop-head. Mop-head? She turns and gazes in dismay at the empty bucket by the outer door. Why, she wants to know, tears springing to the corners of her eyes, can’t it be easier than
this? And so she enters, sets her bucket down with a firm deliberation, leans her mop gravely against the wall. Also a broom, brushes, some old rags, counting things off on her fingers as she
deposits them. The curtains have been drawn open and the room is already (as though impatiently) awash with morning sunlight. She crosses the room, past the (no glances) empty rumpled bed, and
opens wide the glass doors leading out into the garden, letting in the sweet breath of morning, which she hardly notices. She has resolved this morning – as every morning – to be
cheerful and good-natured, such that if any accident should happen to test that resolution, she should not suffer it to put her out of temper with everything besides, but such resolutions are more
easily sworn than obeyed. Things are already in such a state! Yet: virtue is made for difficulties, she reminds herself, and grows stronger and brighter for such trials. “
Oh
,
teach
me
,
my God and King
,
in all things thee to see
,
and what I do in any thing
,
to do it as for thee!
” she sings out to the garden and to the room, feeling her
heart lift like a sponge in a bucket. “
A servant with this clause makes drudgery divine: who sweeps a room
,
as for thy laws
,
makes that and th
’
action
fine!
” And yes, she can still recover the lost time. She has everything now, the mop and bucket, broom, rags and brushes, her apron pockets are full of polishes, dustcloths and cleaning
powders, the cupboards are well stocked with fresh linens, all she really needs now is to keep – but ah! is there, she wonders anxiously, spinning abruptly on her heels as she hears the
master relieving himself noisily in the bathroom, any
water
in the bucket –?!