Perfect Slave

by Becky Bell

  This was greeted by exclamations of delight from most of the assembled company, and conversation immediately broke out, the staff all sharing Andrea’s worries about the need for redundancies.

  Highfield raised his hands to calm the noise. ‘What’s more, I am delighted to tell you that as an indication of how seriously the chairman of Darrington takes this pledge, he has agreed to come here this morning and address you personally.’ Highfield nodded to his secretary, who was standing by the main entrance. She opened the door and Charles Darrington Hawksworth strode into the room.

  Whether it was Edward Highfield or Charles Hawksworth who had choreographed this dramatic entrance Andrea did not know. But she did know that she couldn’t take her eyes off the man who strode up to the rostrum and turned to face the rows of employees.

  ‘Good morning.’ He had a firm but velvety voice, a soft-cultured English accent. ‘Your chairman has explained the basic situation I hope...’ He began to explain Darrington’s interest in Silverton and its plans to pump money into the new software it was developing, and how marketing would be a great deal easier with their considerable resources, but Andrea barely heard what he was saying. Instead she found herself staring into his eyes. They were the deepest blue she thought she had ever seen. What’s more, though he was addressing his remarks to the whole room full of people, they seemed to be staring directly at her.

  She had no doubt that Charles Darrington Hawksworth was one of the most handsome men she had ever seen. He had a square jaw and a craggy face, with a straight nose and a wide fleshy mouth, very smooth lips, and thick curly black hair that was greying over his temples. He was tall and slender with a broad chest, and he had the longest fingers she thought she had ever seen, the fingernails immaculately manicured. His clothes were immaculate too; a beautifully tailored navy-blue suit, a white silk shirt and a yellow silk tie, his handmade shoes polished to a mirror-like shine.

  ‘...So in conclusion, I have bought this company because of its personnel, not to strip it of its assets. I hope you will all continue to work for me and that we enjoy further success.’

  There was loud applause, no doubt based on the considerable relief that the employees’ jobs appeared to be guaranteed.

  Edward Highfield got to his feet. Andrea had never liked the man. Though he was moderately attractive and there was no doubt about his business acumen, she thought he was smarmy and insincere.

  ‘Thank you, Charles,’ he said.

  Charles Hawksworth bowed slightly then strode back out of the room with Edward Highfield at his side.

  Andrea Hamilton found herself applauding too, though her eyes were still rooted to Hawksworth. But as the applause died away she noticed that Hawksworth had stopped at the door and looked around. Once again she had the impression he was staring straight at her. She saw him speak to Highfield, though she was too far away to hear what was being said, then nod in her direction. Then they were both gone.

  ‘What a dish,’ Pam said, as they filed out of the room. ‘Jesus, Andrea, what I wouldn’t give for a night alone with him. Did you see those eyes?’

  Andrea nodded. She could still see them. Like catching a glimpse of the sun by mistake they seemed to have burned into her retinas.

  ‘I wonder how often he’s going to visit us. I want to be prepared next time. Throw myself under his car, something subtle like that,’ Pam continued.

  ‘I didn’t really notice him,’ Andrea lied, not wanting to discuss the real feelings Charles Hawksworth had aroused in her. ‘Come on, let’s get back to work,’ she said. ‘At least it looks as if our jobs are safe.’

  It was a ritual. It had started as a routine. Now every detail had become enshrined, every moment savoured, every action adding to the excitement. But tonight there was an urgency she had rarely felt before.

  She had begun to strip off her clothes as soon as she got home. She abandoned her jacket on the sofa in her small living room and headed straight for the bedroom. Everything was kept in the bottom drawer of a large pine chest. She took it all out and laid it carefully on her double bed, having to remind herself not to hurry, that the anticipation was as much a part of the ritual as the performance.

  Unbuttoning her blouse she went into the small en-suite bathroom. She adjusted the mixer taps until she got an even flow of warm water, then took off her blouse and her skirt. She was wearing a black lace bra that strained to hold her fleshy breasts, tan coloured tights and small bikini briefs. As she reached behind her back to unhook the bra she looked at herself in the mirror on the wall. She stared into her eyes, but gazing back at her over her shoulder she could see the face of Charles Darrington Hawksworth, those deep-blue eyes perfectly still, the expression on his face betraying no emotion.

  She allowed the bra to drop away. Her breasts trembled. She had large nipples surrounded by a narrow band of dark-brown aureole, which was pimpled with little papillae. Her nipples were already erect. They had been like that since the meeting. In fact they were so hard and knotted they had turned a deep red, standing out from the orb of flesh like cherries on a cake. Tentatively she tweaked the left one between her thumb and finger and felt a huge surge of feeling. She looked into the mirror. Charles’s eyes were disapproving, and she knew why. She was not allowed to touch her nipples this early on in the proceedings. Everything had its place.

  She turned the water off, scented it with bath oil then stripped off her tights and panties and climbed in. She lay with the back of her head against the edge of the bath and closed her eyes. On the blank screen of her mind Charles Hawksworth appeared again, his expression unchanged, those eyes looking at her critically.

  She could feel her clitoris, trapped between her thick labia, pulsing. The temptation to open her legs and run her finger down to manipulate it was strong, but she resisted. Everything had its place. She usually spent longer luxuriating in the water, enjoying the prospect of what was to come, but tonight her needs were altogether too urgent. She stood up, soaped herself down then washed the lather away with a big sponge. As it cascaded off her body, the water channelled down between her legs, it looked as if she were peeing.

  Climbing out of the water she picked up a big fluffy towel and rubbed herself dry, determinedly ignoring the sexual feelings this aroused as the towel brushed her breasts and her sex. She dropped the towel aside and walked into the bedroom. She felt little butterflies of excitement beginning to flutter in her stomach.

  The corset was made from black leather. It was tight, at least one size too small for her, and narrow, no more than a wide belt of material that cinched around her waist. Andrea pulled it into place, the leather cold against her warm body. She struggled with the hooks and eyes that held it in place, sucking her breath in to get it to do up. The constriction excited her.

  Dangling from its hem was four long black leather suspenders. Andrea sat on the bed. She had laid out a pair of sheer black stockings. She picked one up and rolled it into a pocket, then inserted her foot into the nylon, rolling it up over her leg. The nylon was woven with Lycra to give it a shiny, almost wet look, and Andrea loved the way it transformed her flesh, making it smooth and silky, clinging to the contours of her calves and thighs. She clipped it into the suspenders at the front and the side of her thigh, then repeated the process with the second stocking.

  She stood up. The black patent leather high heels were standing on the floor by her wardrobe. She climbed into them. The heels were so high it would have been impossible to walk for more than a few steps, but the shoes tightened all the muscles in her calves and deepened the gluteal fold where her thigh tucked into her buttocks. She had installed a floor-length mirror on the bedroom wall opposite the foot of the bed, and stood in front of it admiring herself. Again, over her shoulder she could see Charles Hawksworth admiring her too. She looked like a whore. The idea made her clitoris throb.

  She allowed her hand to run down over her flat, smooth bell
y, framed as it was by the leather corset at the top, the long suspenders at the side and the opaque black stocking tops underneath. She had very short, soft pubic hair, shaped in a narrow triangle, like an inverted Eiffel tower, and between her legs she was virtually hairless, with nothing to mask her thick puffy labia. She could see the first inch of them now, pursed at the base of her mons.

  Slowly, walking with tiny steps because of the shoes, she knelt at the foot of the bed. The ropes were permanently tied around the legs of the bed but tucked away under a valance, out of sight of casual visitors. She pulled the first one out and set it down on top of the mattress, then tottered around the bed and did the same with the other three. Knotted to the end of each was a metal snap-lock.

  The shoes were already making her feet and the muscles of her calves ache, but the pain was mixed with a peculiar pleasure.

  Four black leather cuffs lay on the bed. Putting her left foot up on the mattress Andrea wrapped one of them around the silky nylon that sheathed her ankle and buckled it tight. She did the same with her right, then sat on the bed again. Being right-handed it was comparatively easy to buckle the cuff around her left wrist by holding it tightly against her body, but the right wrist was more awkward. She had practised the manoeuvre so many times however that it didn’t take long.

  The feeling of each cuff circling her limbs increased her excitement markedly. She looked in the mirror again. Her body was banded by black, the tight leather corset biting into her waist, the leather cuffs and the bands of the black stocking tops around her thighs. By contrast to these tight black rings her exposed flesh, particularly her large round breasts and the top of her slender thighs, seemed incredibly creamy and soft. She could see Charles Hawksworth’s eyes looking at her, examining every detail of her body.

  Andrea picked up the final item of her equipment. It was a narrow black leather belt. She pulled it around her waist and buckled it tight. Another much wider piece of leather was attached to the back of this belt, hanging down at the moment, loosely between her legs. Projecting from this was a small but very stout dildo made from cream-coloured plastic.

  Sitting on the bed Andrea scrambled over to the middle of the mattress, then opened her legs. Leaning forward she secured the snap-locks attached to each rope at the bottom corners of the bed to a shiny metal D-ring at the side of the ankle cuffs. She lay back, feeling a surge of excitement. She tried to close her legs but couldn’t, the bondage preventing anything but the slightest inward movement.

  For a moment she did nothing, wallowing in the sensations that were coursing through her body. The dildo was sticking up vertically between her legs and she could push herself down on it so her labia were crushed against its shaft. Her clitoris was throbbing so wildly she thought she might come like this before her preparations were complete. But she managed to wrestle herself back from the edge.

  Sitting up again she took hold of the dildo and directed it down to the mouth of her vagina. Before this ritual had developed, before it had become so complicated, she had merely jammed the handle of her hairbrush into her sex while she frotted her fingers against her clit and dreamt of being bound and helpless. Now she had evolved much greater refinements.

  Bracing herself she slid the tip of the dildo into her vagina. A wave of sensation made her shudder. Her sex was wet and the dildo slid home effortlessly. She pushed it all the way in then folded the leather it was attached to up over her belly. It buckled tightly into the front of the belt around her waist, pressing down against her labia and holding the dildo firmly in place.

  Lying back again changed the angle of her sex, pushing the dildo into new areas of sensitivity. She moaned. Again she struggled with herself, as exquisite sensation rolled over her. She didn’t want to come yet, not until she was ready.

  The next manoeuvre required a little bit of contortion. Stretching herself up the bed, pulling until the ankle cuffs bit into her flesh, she reached over with both hands to the snap-lock on the top left-hand corner of the bed. She managed to clip it into the D-ring on the cuff around her left wrist. Then she rolled onto her back and stretched her right arm up to the rope lying on the mattress at the top right-hand corner. Andrea was not a fool. She did not want to tie herself in bondage so tight that she could not escape. She could have just managed to open the snap-lock with the fingers of her right hand and inserted it into the D-ring on her right wrist, but even if she could there was no guarantee she could get it open again. She had practised it several times and managed to get herself free on every occasion, but she was still not prepared to risk it. What she had done therefore, to give herself the impression of being bound and spread-eagled, was to knock the locking mechanism out of the snap-lock, leaving instead a hook-like projection. It was easy enough to get the D-ring into this hook and equally easy to unhook it again. Then, as long as she was careful not to move her right arm around too much, she could struggle and tug against it as if she were really bound.

  With her head twisted around so she could see what she was doing she managed to slip the D-ring over the hook. She immediately pulled her arm down so the rope was taut and the hook wouldn’t come free. She pulled on all her limbs, wanting to feel the constriction.

  It was not perfect. Somewhere in the back of her mind she knew the bondage was a sham, that she could merely flick her right arm up and undo herself, but it was as near to the real thing as she was prepared to risk.

  She closed her eyes. She was acutely aware of her bondage, the way the leather cuffs pulled at her wrists and ankles, stretching the muscles and sinews of her body. She loved the feeling of the tight sleek stockings and the even tighter leather corset. The suspenders were so tight they cut channels into the flesh on the tops of her thighs.

  Normally she would lay like this, spread-eagled across the bed, for a long time, savouring every feeling, teasing herself by rolling her hips from side to side very slowly so the base of the dildo rubbed against her clit, bringing herself closer and closer to the brink of orgasm but never over it.

  But tonight was different. Tonight Charles Darrington Hawksworth was standing by the side of the bed looking down at her, his eyes unblinking, his expression varying between indulgence and stark disapproval. Tonight she was rolling her hips wildly, rocking the whole bed, her clitoris responding with sharp tweaks of exquisite pleasure. She clenched her vagina around the phallus, feeling the juices that were running over it.

  Those deep blue eyes burnt into her. She could see him examining her tits. She thrust them up towards him.

  ‘Do they please you, master?’

  The phantom said nothing. His eyes moved to her belly. Andrea tried to spread her legs further apart. Then she felt her vagina convulse reflexively around the dildo. It did it twice in quick succession and she whimpered. She pushed her buttocks up clear of the bed. She was coming now and she knew there wasn’t anything she could do to stop herself.

  She opened her mouth, arched her head back against the pillow until it was almost at right angles to her spine.

  ‘Master!’ she screamed as she came, her orgasm locking every sinew and muscle in her body.

  It was a long time before she opened her eyes again. When she did Charles Darrington Hawksworth had gone.

  Chapter Two

  ‘Ms Hamilton?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This is for you.’

  Andrea had opened the door of her flat three days later to a tall, extremely broad, blond-haired man in a grey chauffeur’s uniform. He was holding a white envelope in his hand.

  ‘For me? I don’t understand.’

  ‘I’m to wait for a reply.’

  ‘Oh. You’d better come in.’

  Andrea was wearing a tracksuit. It was seven o’clock and she was just thinking about what she was going to wear tonight on her dinner date with Greg Anders, her current boyfriend.

  ‘Thank you, Ms,’ the chauffeur said. He took off
his cap, tucked it under his arm and stepped inside.

  Andrea was puzzled. She didn’t know anyone who had a chauffeur. She tore open the envelope and took out a white deckled edged card. The writing was neat and italicised.

  Dear Ms Hamilton,

  I hope you will not think of this as an impertinence, but I wondered if you would like to have dinner with me on Saturday night. I think you know why. If you do not, merely return this invitation to George. If you do, as I suspect, then he will return for you at seven on Saturday night.

  Whatever your decision I will always remain yours faithfully,

  Charles Hawksworth.

  Andrea stared at the note. She read it again. She felt herself blush. She hadn’t the faintest idea that Charles Hawksworth had any interest in her. Of course she remembered how he had paused at the door and indicated her to Edward Highfield, but she’d convinced herself that incident was just her over-vivid imagination and the effect of those almost hypnotic eyes. He could have been pointing out one of a hundred people, or noting something entirely different. Now it appeared that her first instinct had been right.

  ‘You work for Mr Hawksworth.’

  ‘As I understand it we both do, Ms.’

  She smiled. ‘Yes. That’s right, we do. But I’ve only been working for him since Tuesday.’

  ‘So I understand. May I ask for your reply, Ms?’

  Andrea caught her breath. She didn’t think that an hour had gone by since last Tuesday when she hadn’t thought of Hawksworth, hadn’t seen his face, and what’s more, hadn’t had some wild sexual fantasy about what he would do to her. She hadn’t the faintest idea why the briefest of meetings - indeed it could hardly be called a meeting at all - had produced such an extraordinary response in her, but there was no denying that it had. Now it appeared that this briefest of glimpses had also made an impact on him.