Bedtime Confessions (The Chambermaid's Tales - Short Stories) (2 page)

I always knew domination was preferable to me and I have to say, it thrills me more than I can explain. It is the sight of a man, perhaps even a small one at that, being laid out and restrained – without a single way of escaping anything I might want to do to him. There are several reasons why I choose to deliver rather than receive, but they are too many to number here.

Of course, being able to wield my power over a large man with a great deal more physical strength than me is enthralling. It is drool-inducing. That he has bestowed his trust in me to deliver his pleasure is beyond wh
at I deserve, and yet, I have received men at my door, night after night, wanting me to take them to the heights they've never reached before.

Tonight, I am faced with a gentleman who has made his preference for leather clear. Even the whisper of it spoken on my lips makes me twitchy. God I love leather.

I took this job as a dominatrix because it keeps me out of trouble, but I suppose I secretly hoped that my Master would hear I was “working” again and would take the hint. I am not stupid enough to imagine that he isn't trying to track me down. I know he is. Part of me reasons I am playing with fire, while another considers this is all I really know to do, in order to keep myself sane. However, taking on the role in this professional capacity means I have to adhere very closely to the gentlemen's requests, which I wouldn't have acquiesced to in my former guise of the Chambermaid.

Yes, now I am working for an agency, I have less creativity in my role and I simply carry out the client's wishes, which are communicated to me beforehand. It makes it all easier for me, but still, I liked my old methods…

So, the leather. Dear me. The thought of it spikes the hairs on the back of my neck. I sends me all a-quiver. Ooh animal skin. The damn man. And preferably, a corset. The combination of the two makes me fretful. I haven't had a decent man in a long while. I have been single for some time, and there's a reason, but I need not worry you with it… Suffice it to say, I would probably mount anything right now.

My prerogative is exhibitionism.

My preference is domination.

My fetish is leather.

A recent spike in my hormone levels has made my already high libido even more so. But
, that is an event of my real life.

So, to the task…

I shower rigorously and shave everywhere. It is wonderful to feel bald and cleansed. I like to scrub myself from top to bottom, very thoroughly. It makes me feel reborn and the capillaries come alive. I walk around the house naked for a little while, just to get the air and dry naturally. Then I lay out a bathmat in the bedroom and apply a fragrant talcum powder to any areas prone to sweating. That would not be good in leather! I apply deodorant minimally: nobody likes the musky smell of that! I also dot perfume in a number of areas before misting my entire body.

I prepare my face with a light dusting of powder. I paint my lips ruby-red and smoke my eyes out with French eyeliner and eye shadow. I curl my eyelashes and then apply several layers of mascara to dramatise the effect. Sculpting wax does the trick with my
short brown locks. I tease the hair around my ears so I have two curls decorating each cheek, like a movie star. It has to be said, this job is akin to any type of role a woman may take on. As long as she is in the right frame of mind and equipped with the correct uniform, she can convince herself of anything.

The clothes next.
Oh, darn it
.

I ease a pair of black lace knickers up my legs without any trouble.
They are the cut-out sort and very expensive, but they are for my benefit more than anybody else's. I do this job for me and my enjoyment. The men seem to know that, and, they seem not to care. They relish it in fact.

I look at the corset laid out on my bed and shudder. I close my eyes and take a breath. I have to arrive for my appointment as fresh as I was when I stepped out of that shower. Nothin
g else will do. I would never allow myself to turn up seemingly used already.

I bypass the corset for a moment. Just a moment. I take a few seconds to shake off my desire and turn to the boots that sit on the floor. I roll on some bla
ck silk pop socks (only the best) and sit on the edge of the bed. I slide my feet inside the heels and position the first boot so I can pull the zip up. The snap at the end of the zipper line sends shockwaves through me and I admire the footwear as it caresses and holds my calf taut and yet supple. I tighten the buckle at the side and repeat with the other boot, fastening myself in. I feel safe then, almost as if with these spike-heeled weapons about me, I might manage to kick my desires back. I'm armoured now.

Okay, the corset.
It's fine
, I tell myself.
Be cool
. I am anything but!

I pick it up and walk to the corner of the room so I cannot see
myself in any mirrors. I wrap it around my back and ignore the softness of the underside.
Jesus, it's like satin
. I want to deal with myself immediately but I can't!

I
take control and give myself a mental shakedown. I work on the hooks and eyes that run up the centre of my bodice before lacing the layer above that. I am doubly assuring myself of safety then. I try to ignore the fact that my large breasts are far too uncomfortable in that cage, telling myself the effect is all worth it. I jiggle to ensure I am safely stowed, and then tie the laces at the top in a bow.

I
try to negate any impulses I have to reach down and feel the sturdiness of my confine and the way it hugs every part of me.

The tightness at my waist
! It sparks electricity in my core. My loins swell and I curse myself. The thought of a man holding his large hands there and me holding mine over his…

Someone creeps into my thoughts
… but he always ruins everything. I inwardly chastise myself and shake my limbs out to rid myself of his memory.

I walk quickly over toward the bed and throw my winter coat on. It is late March but it's still so cold, I can get away with it. I tighten the belt and decide I look like any other woman about town, go
ing about her business.

I
exit the house and jump in my Audi, slamming my bag on the passenger seat. I travel with my sleek aviator shades pushed high up on the bridge of my nose. I don't want to be recognised. It's only just starting to get dark but still, someone might spot me. I drive carefully through the country roads but I use the car as it should be, otherwise what was the point of buying it? It's a sophisticated machine of intricate workings. It deserves to receive the proper treatment and handling.

I pull up at my destination and applaud myself. I really have resisted so well. There were lots of lay-bys I could have pulled over in on the way, just to make a little
pit-stop and arrange myself better, perhaps accidentally sliding a finger where it should not go. However, I restrained myself. I reined back my overwhelming sense of sexiness and arousal so that I may still arrive for my appointment fresh and clear of wrongdoing.

I grab my bag
and stroll up the driveway, toward the country mansion. I am welcomed by a monotone intercom and told to let myself in. I walk across the tiled parquet floor and the sound of my heels clacking is sexy in itself. I strut. I cannot help it.

I hear the low, mechanical tone of the
in-house intercom system, “Upstairs, third door on your right.”

I steadily climb the
wide staircase and double check my handbag. I find my prop for that evening's entertainment is definitely about my person.

I saunter across the landing and admire the house. It is classically decorated and sparingly furnished.
Definitely a bachelor or otherwise
, I decide.

I reach a
heavy wooden door and tap lightly, hearing him beckoning me in soon after. I twist the handle and open, shutting it behind me before even looking at what I might be dealing with.

When I turn, I see he is distinguished
. Perhaps early 50s and yet, athletic. Tall. Sculpted. Thick black hair slightly greying at the sides, a deep tan in his olive skin and black eyes. Jet. Black. Eyes.
I really am a glutton for punishment
, I tell myself. He stands with a hand in his grey suit-trouser pocket, nodding in approval of me. Perhaps I am more than he expected. His other hand rests on one of the knobs at the foot of the bed, while his chest threatens to break through the sumptuous off-white cloth of his tailored shirt.

I
sense that this is a man of the world with all kinds of experience. If he wanted to, I do not doubt he could show me all he has learned from his years of screwing anything and everything he has ever wanted. He has money, power and attraction in abundance. However, today, he wants to be dominated and I shall gladly rise to that challenge.

When I was attached to my M
aster, I hated him for loaning me out. And yet, even now I am free, I still seek the torture he regularly inflicted on me: putting myself in front of men such as this that might tempt me. The supremacy I achieve afterward is too good to give up, however. In having resisted, I feel so empowered in the aftermath.

As I gaze up and down his physique
, I feel myself flush all over. In an instant, I unbutton my coat and throw it away from my body, leaving it pooled on the floor behind me. I remind myself that this is a job and I have to carry it out professionally, and, as agreed beforehand.

I reach down to my handbag and retrieve my most treasured tickler. It is produced from the finest peacock feathers and is a mixture of deep sea-greens and royal blues.

“I heard there was a dirty man to cleanse. A very, filthy, disgusting man to clean up.”

I hear my
leather creak as I walk across the room and it sends shudders through me. All my limbs are taut and strained and I refuse to let myself relax. My bare thighs are obscene and off-putting.

I exaggerate my gait
and saunter towards him, swinging my hips side-to-side, side-to-side. With my hand at my waist as I move, the contact with the leather encasing my torso sends heat up my arm.

I reach him and make eye contact, refusing to bat an eyelid. I coldly stare into his eyes and lay my tickler down. I face him again, seeing the years of world wearine
ss in his eyes. Maybe seeing me reading him provides some thrill, because his trousers are instantly stabbed by his cock. I reach for his tie and undo it slowly, noticing he stands at around half a foot taller than I, though my heels have closed the gap somewhat.

“
Your arousal is rather… confident, isn't it? I do not appreciate it.”

“
I'm sorry,” he says, in what I now notice is a really strong Italian accent. I try not to let his luxurious voice barricade me to his crotch.

“
I punish harder for such confidence. The more confidence you show, the harder I slay,” I warn.

“
It aches at this moment,” he says softly, and I undo his shirt buttons to discover a very hard chest and streamlined abs, plus slim, sculpted hips. I snarl at him as if in disgust and curl my lip.

“
Remove your filthy trousers, and quickly,” I warn.

I see the other toys on the bedside that I was told would be provided.

“Not the underpants,” I say sharply, as I see him about to shave himself of everything he owns, in preparation for the experience of his life. “Keep the Rolex on too. It shall only remind me of what a jumped-up little rich boy you are.”

He groans and shuts his eyes momentarily, before I crack the whip t
hat is amongst the toys. Even through the air, it sounds lethal.

“
Bad boy!” I shout, and I adopt my persona in her entire extent. I see it thrills him more than he would care to admit.

“
I am so sinful,” he says. “I think you are possibly the most beautiful woman I've ever seen!”

I scowl at him and betray not a jot of emotion.

“My wrath is upon you, slave,” and he lowers to his knees at my motion.

I grab the gag and place it in his mouth, before buckling
the leather at the back of his head. I push my groin into his face and sense him taking a long, deep whiff.

I pull back,
slap his face and warn, “No freebies. You have to earn your privileges!”

He nods enthusiastically and I can see his penis is balancing on its axis
beneath his underwear. He is terribly aroused.

“
Up on your feet, servant,” and he stands. Then I request that he turns and I bind his hands behind his back with rope. “The more you struggle, the more you'll injure yourself.”

I hear muffles through the gag and I pull his boxers down
inelegantly, before thrashing his perfect ass cheek with a quick twitch of the whip. He jerks in response and breathes heavily. I sense he is too much aroused already and that he needs a little release quickly, otherwise this will never work as well as it should.

Without warning, I
slap each ankle for him to move his feet so I can get the boxers off. I ask him to spin so I can see him. I quietly admire his manhood but maintain my stony demeanour. I'd really love to ride it hard and fast but that is not the way of the Chambermaid. She is stronger than that. I leave him stood where he is as I pace the floor.