Dragging his bollocks unceremoniously back from the brink, Adam dropped on to the sofa. “Face me,” he ordered. She swivelled and steadied, presenting the icon to his gaze.
Initially Debbie had baulked at the prospect of coiffuring her pubic hair. In her mind depilation was vulgar and the last resort for waning sex appeal. Assent had only come with the ultimatum: shape it or shave it completely. So, as it hung before him like a badge of fidelity he was thrilled by the success of the idea.
The hairy heart was perfectly shaped, sweeping down from the groin to a point just concealing her niche, where the inner thighs parted, clearing the way to her sex. Looking through that tempting tunnel he glimpsed, paler beyond the shadowed maw, flanking slivers of cheek. However, in the face of primal urges, self-restraint is about as useful as a second-hand sex shop and Adam realised the only way he’d carry this thing through was to divert the energy from one to the other. So, ignoring the stirrings from below, he projected his desire in a display of aggression which swamped any protest Debbie may have thought to make.
“In view of your recidivism, I see no alternative but to assume responsibility for all aspects of your existence. As wife and woman. From this moment on all decisions will be made for you. Eventually, maturity may displace your present obstinacy. How long that might take is for me to see and you to suffer. Just get this one point clear in your mind: it is no longer merely your actions which have to please me, but your demeanour, deportment - in short, your very existence which must be moulded so intricately to my ideal that you become as close to me as my own shadow. Clear?”
“Y-yes.” This was a new game. Wasn’t it?
“All financial matters will become my purview. And I mean all. You will not normally handle a single penny. You will give me your card and cheque book as soon as you are dismissed. They will be destroyed. Legitimate expenses will be paid on your behalf, by cheque. Essential feminine requirements will be satisfied via the household budget. Should you necessarily handle actual coin, the expenditure will be accounted for by receipt and all excesses returned. Clear?”
“Yes, Adam.” What was he after, a slave? “If you say so.”
“With your new role comes a new name. You will henceforth be addressed as, and respond only to Eva. E V A.”
“Eva?”
“Deborah is the woman you hope to become. In the interim you will be Eva. To everyone.”
“Must I change my name legally?”
“Say to me: From now on I wish to be known as Eva Sillitto.”
“I wish to be known as Eva Sillitto.”
“That is all it needs for now, Eva.”
Debbie relaxed a little. Adam and Eva. Good joke. Adam and Eva. Peter and Petra. It could become a fad; his-and-hers naming.
Adam smiled. “It is something else you have in common with Petra.”
Eh? What did he mean? Peter was ... something jarred her memory; Petra and what she’d said that first night. What was it?
His voice interrupted her thoughts: “... impractical, so you will continue to ...”
“Pardon? I’m sorry, I missed that.”
“You weren’t listening?”
“I was thinking about what you said.”
“So you weren’t listening?”
“I suppose not.
“You weren’t listening?” he persisted.
“No, Adam. Sorry.”
“You will be. I said, you will address me by my given name. Though to begin with I feel that Master, or at least Sir, would be both more appropriate and instructive. However, the privilege is not to be abused. You will be respectful at all times. Clear?”
“Yes, Adam.”
“To prevent discontent, we will now formalise this agreement. Bring me pen and paper from the studio.”
Debbie - Eva, turned to do his bidding, walking on the balls of her feet. That elusive memory was slowly surfacing. Petra had said ... Petra had said? Damn it!
***
In Adam’s dictation two copies of an Agreement were painstakingly penned. Each comma and full stop carefully considered. When they were satisfied, Deb-Eva was given one and Adam retained the other which he took straight into the bedroom and pinned to the wall above the bed.
Watching him through the door, D - Eva gnawed at her recollection. Petra had said...? Petra ha ... Oh, yes! She, Eva, had commented on the coincidence of her and Peter’s names. Petra had replied that it was no coincidence, but the women weren’t well enough acquainted for explanations. That had to be it. Petra or whatever her original name had been was the model for Eva. Which meant...!
Peter strikes again!!
Eva’s mouth went dry. This wasn’t a game after all, was it? Damn Peter! Damn his interfering influence! Damn men, with their overweening brains in their overbearing balls. Games were one thing, but this looked like getting out of hand. What was so bad about her kicking up her heels a bit knowing Adam would raise some dust from her drawers? Hadn’t it been good for both of them?
“Now,” Adam returned to the sofa. “Fetch me your hairbrush.”
“You’ve just been in the bedroom. Why didn’t you get it?’ she railed in tentative resistance.
“NOW!”
Oh shit! She stomped off. Returning, she scowlingly thrust the broad polished oval at him, bristles first. “Here.
“Handle first, if you please.”
“Here then,” she proffered the plain wood.
“Adam.
His voice was threateningly low, but Eva was in no mood to notice.
“Here, then, Adam!” she snapped.
“Very well. We’ll do it the hard way.” Leaning forward, Adam snatched the hairbrush with one hand and simultaneously pressed the tip of his other thumb hard into the centre of her pubic heart. Eva yelped. Before she could step back, his long middle finger jabbed between her thighs deep into her quim. The hand clenched. She was caught by the pubic bone. He had her, so to speak, by the ovaries. Or as near as he could get. Her small hands on his wrist were powerless to resist the inexorable tug which forced her first to the side, then forward against his knee. To loosen his grip she rose on tiptoe, but one pull had her falling in a winded heap across his lap. Grasping her waist, he pulled her tight into himself. Gasping for breath she mistook his intentions and, reaching back, proffered one arm. By the time she realised her error he’d snatched the other one and it was all over. Both wrists were firmly clamped and thrust up her back, forcing her head down.
Eva assessed her predicament. Though her legs were free to kick, too energetic a movement at that stage would only throw her over onto her head. Perhaps even hurt her neck. The bastard had the upper hand in more ways than one. So, gritting herteeth, she lay still and waited.
Adam hefted the hairbrush. This would be the first time he had applied any kind of implement to her flesh, and he carefully examined it for splinters, pleased to find the heavy piece of varnished wood unscarred.
Next he examined the target. That expanse of skin bounded by belt, suspenders and stocking tops. Regular sun-bed sojourns had ensured there were no pallid bikini marks to mar the absolute perfection of tan and texture. Even in the shallow crease. He trailed an appreciative finger up the back of her thigh, into the divide where it brushed briefly across the labia, then over the blooming crown of one cheek. Perfection. Why couldn’t women ever accept a man’s delight in their bodies; the silky resilience, infinite variety of planes and textures and that eternal promise of soft, moist sustenance? It was frustrating to always have aesthetic adulation dismissed as urgent, sleazy lust. But every silver lining has a cloud. And on this occasion, at least, it floated over Eva’s head. Fitting the brush comfortably into his palm, Adam took a bead on the outer cheek and whapped it!
“Ow!”
He tightened his grip as she almost wrenched free.<
br />
WHAPP!
“Ouch!” she yelled, struggling even harder.
The sheer violence of her reaction caught him by surprise. She had never been so resistant to the spankings. If he was to stand any chance of coming out of this the winner, he’d have to get in as many whacks as possible and break her before she broke loose.
WHAPP! WHAPP! WHAPP! WHAPP!
Without aiming, he cracked the brush willy-nilly onto both cheeks as fast as he could.
“Ow! Ooooooof! Oh! Sod! OW! STOP!” followed: WHAPP! WHAPP! WHAPP! WHAPP! WHAPP! WHAPP!
The legs kicked. The hips churned. The head tossed.
WHAPP! “Geroff!” Kick, wrench.
WHAPP! “Ooooh! Bastard!” Toss, churn.
WHAPP! “Fuck. No! Plea ...”Wriggle, kick.
WHAPP! “Nnnnnh. Adam! PLEEEEZE!”
Fingers scrabbled. Toes clawed. Hips jumped and jived. So frantic grew her struggles that the target blurred into a wobbling crimson blob. But the further she wormed towards his kneecaps and freedom, the more she gave him access to those delicate inner cheeks.
WHAPP! WHAPP! WHAPP! WHAPP! WHAPP! WHAPP!
Her protests devolved into a single breathless wail. More than an “Eeeeee.” though not quite an “Oooooo.” Toes deep in the carpet, she prised her pelvis round fraction by millimetre until the outer hip slid clear and buried his knees in belly.
Push was coming literally to Shove and, rather than lose total control, Adam gave the now slithering body a final: WHAPP! and let her fall with a bump at his feet.
Her face was dry-eyed but crumpled. Comical, too, as expressions chased each other across the lovely vista. Relief at her release preceded fear of his following her down to add a few more; which itself preceded chagrin as she scrambled leggily to safety only to suffer more as the carpet scoured her sensitized dermis.
Adam lobbed the brush into a corner.
“Come here.”
His voice was hoarse.
“Eva. Come here to me. Now, if you please.”
Persuaded she was safe for the time being, Eva rolled onto all fours and crawled forward.
“Stand up and turn round.”
Gingerly she complied.
“Touch your toes.”
Grimacing as the inflamed and swollen skin stretched, she held the pose while Adam examined his handiwork. Especially the swollen pout of her sex. She heard the old familiar raaasp! Boxer shorts do have one advantage - ease of access. It took but a second for his urgent fingers to gape the flies and free the gorging shaft to greet her. She licked her lips hungrily. When Adam clutched her hips and tugged her backwards, Eva sat gratefully down to a filling meal of red meat and white sauce.
Chapter Four
“Let me show you round,” Peter boomed expansively. “We’ll do the full tour. I think you’re ready for it, don’t you?”
Adam mounted the stairs in a state of boyish excitement. This was it. What Peter had been hinting at. Did it mean he was no longer considered a neophyte?
***
In the centre of a West London terraced crescent, the house presented a paved front complete with basement servants’ entrance and a porticoed pediment atop the stoop. Adam had noted the understated modifications: while appearing wealthily normal in all other respects, the double-glazed windows bore impenetrably tinted glass which mutedly reflected the early evening sun.
Before he could put so much as a greasy fingertip to the polished brass knocker - fashioned in the shape of a coil of rope - Peter had opened the door with a welcoming arm for his shoulders.
Eva had just attained the top step and registered surprise when Peter extended his arm to block her way. He indicated the basement steps: “Down there. The outer door Is unlocked. Close it behind you and wait.” Without further ado, he swung Adam through the front door and heeled it shut behind them.
***
To judge by the staircase, the Wardle’s were nuts about pine. The old-gold stair-carpet and varnished woodwork suggested a deliberate compensation for the lack of colour through the windows.
Third floor. Second floor. The same decor stretched away on each landing as far as the closed doors. At the third they reached the attic level, where three more doors opened off a smaller landing.
“Boxroom and my little sanctuary to your left. It’s the other one we want,” Peter said without the slightest trace of breathlessness. He moved easily for a man his size.
Opting to deal with the situation like a museum tour, Adam stood aside while Peter opened the door. And they entered the most furnished bare room Adam had ever seen - hardly surprising, though, given the circles he hadn’t moved in until then!
The entire room, including the door, was covered in black rubber tiling. The fluorescent light fitting was painted black and in one corner squatted a seatless black porcelain wc. There was even a lidded black box for the toilet roll. The window was, predictably, black glass.
“Safety glass, like the others. With a tinted outer pane,” confirmed Peter. “Slave quarters,” he nodded unnecessarily.
The second floor was almost normal, comprising bedrooms complete with en suite toilets, bidets and showers. Here the wood theme was carried through even to the beds, which were all four-poster doubles. “No need to tell you what the posts come in useful for, eh?”
The first floor was absolutely normal. A through living room, it was a feast of floral prints, wicker and foliage; with a small fountain at each end for humidity. Ditto the ground floor - sans fountains - where a dining room fronted the street and backed onto a spacious kitchen littered with power points for every conceivable gadget.
So far, the score was two-and-a-half to one in favour of Petra. Why, then, all the fuss? Anyone might indulge themselves with a rubber room and there was nothing in the rest of the house to offend anyone’s sensibilities.
“Which just leaves the basement. Then what say you we adjourn for an aperitif? Through here.”
A panel beneath the staircase swung back at a touch to reveal a set of narrower stairs leading down.
Warm air wafted past them, proving it to be a no less valued part of the house. And at the bottom was yet another trio of inscrutable doors.
“The one at the back leads to the garden. Middle door is the Hospitality Room; we’ll get to that shortly. First, though, let’s check on your lesser half.”
***
The third door was double layered. Extinguishing the passage light, Peter motioned Adam to silence and opened the inner half. Beyond was yet another smoked glass plate and through it Eva could be seen standing patiently in the entry beneath a bulkhead light. She wore white silk athletic rig: a running vest through which the outline of a sports bra was clearly visible, deeply vented shorts and, on her otherwise bare feet, plain white trainers. And not a designer label in sight.
Adam stared at the shorts, unable to rid himself any more than he had during the drive here - of an obsession with the form fitting underbrief. His artist’s eye was easily pictured the delicate cloth clutching her decorous mound before delving into the ripe peach and crumpling between the crowding thighs. Then unfolding to sweep out and round in perfect harmony with her buttocks. Silk on silk. Over silk. In silk. His nostrils flared at the thought of the musk wicking from her secret place; seeping through the veil. An intoxicating vapour redolent with hot fecundity. “Gorgeous,” he murmured.
“You’ll get no argument from me,” Peter agreed. “And already showing signs of her education, too. You’ve done wonders with the fidgetting. Is she much marked?”
Adam shook his head. “I’ve gone easy for the last few days.” He couldn’t help grinning: “in your honour.”
“Then we won’t keep her waiting any longer.” Peter switched on the light and opened the outer door.
“Come in, my dear Eva.
We’re ready for you now.”
Eva entered with a lissomely hippy model’s walk, unavoidably aware of their intense scrutiny
“Now, Adam, the Hospitality Room.”
***
They entered the equivalent of the rubber room, only this time the lining was of Japanese Oak. There were three steps down to the floor which, like walls and ceiling, was panelled with broad boards instead of the usual narrow strips. The ceiling was false, with concealed lighting round all four edges. Extending the depth of the house there was, however, no internal sign of the windows Adam knew must be there.
The only sound was the low hum of air conditioning. Their footsteps bomped solidly and when Peter spoke, his words had the brief smothered existence that comes from professional soundproofing.
“Would you like to get her ready?”
Adam raised a questioning eyebrow. Ready for what?
“Stripped, if you please.”
Eva voluntarily kicked out of her trainers, tugged off the vest and shrugged out of the bra. There was a slight hesitation before she lowered the shorts, but one glance at Peter’s face convinced her he intended his orders to be obeyed.
Adam watched the underbrief surrender its hold, dragging reluctantly down her thighs. As she stepped out, he stooped and snatched the garment up. Crumpled to nothing in his hand, he stared at the shorts for a few moments before impetuously burying his face and inhaling deeply. Aaaaaah! There was nothing quite like it. Breathing out carefully through his nose, he again sniffed her fragrance, light-headed from the surfeit of oxygen and aroma.
Wage Slave Page 6