Hot Pursuit (25 page)

‘Did you want something?' Ginger asked.

‘Are you with the visiting master? Are you one of Donald's charges?'

‘Who wants to know? And why?'

The pony-girl said, ‘My master's concerned for Donald. He came here pursuing one runaway favourite, and now his other has fled. My master wanted me to rally the rest of his party so they could console him or offer support.'

‘I haven't run away,' Ginger growled. ‘And I'm trying to offer him more than simple support. I'm trying to offer him –'

‘I don't suppose it matters,' the pony-girl said quickly.

Watching her, Anne could see the woman was anxious to avoid Ginger's obvious anger. Speaking quickly, hurrying to get the words out so she could make a polite escape, the pony-girl added, ‘The other favourite said she'd go and see your master, so I suppose there'll be someone comforting him.'

‘Other favourite? Which other favourite?'

The pony-girl blinked at the question. ‘The
brunette
favourite,' she explained with forced patience. ‘The one who wears that long leather coat.'

Ginger's eyes shone with excitement. She moved her fingers from Anne's sex and slowly raised herself from her knees. ‘Are you telling me you've seen the brunette?'

‘Less than ten minutes ago,' the pony-girl confirmed. ‘She's in the library of deeds.'

‘Of course she is.' Ginger's grin was triumphant and menacing. ‘Of course that's where she'd be.' Without another word, leaving Anne trembling on the rickety chair, she rushed through the door and up the stone stairs.

‘Halcyon days,' Donald decided. ‘Look for it only in books for it is no more than a dream remembered. A civilisation gone with the wind.'

Ginger's pet blonde stopped at the dining room doorway, surprised to find the master talking to himself. He sat alone at the vast table, a sumptuous feast spread out before him and a half-drained carafe of wine by the side of his plate. As always, the familiar bulk of his battered black briefcase rested by his chair and she thought it looked like the last pathetic devotee to stay by his side. His eyes had the bloodshot look that she had previously noticed when he overindulged and his speech had a slurred quality that was often there in the latter hours of his cheese and wine evenings. But the peculiarity of the master talking to himself was something Ginger's pet blonde hadn't encountered before and she entered the room uneasily, not wanting to make her presence known until she better understood the situation.

‘I am the sound of one hand clapping,' Donald proclaimed to no one.

He had his back to her and she noticed he was slumped in an ornate throne at the head of the table. A half-drained glass of velvet red Beaujolais dangled from his hand. Droplets from its bloody contents sloshed to the floor each time he was compelled to
make a graceless movement. ‘I am a telly without a plug. I am a book without pages.' His voice echoed mournfully from the high roof and reverberated through the wrought-iron sconces. Flames on the candles that adorned the dining table fluttered in reverence to his maudlin tone. Gloomily he said, ‘I am a master without servants.'

A cold shiver ran down her spine and she glanced along the empty corridor in the hope of finding eleventh-hour salvation. Sensing it might be the wrong thing to do, but unable to think of any other option, Ginger's pet blonde stepped to the side of his chair. He stared morosely at the lavish platters of roasts, vegetables and fruits, as though they were the cause of his enormous heartache. Peppered between the plates, decorating the table like artefacts from a perverse culture, were a collection of ropes, chains, crops and phalluses. Their benign presence made her hesitate before opening her mouth, but she felt duty bound to say something. ‘Master Donald,' she began tentatively. ‘May I speak?'

He flinched in his chair more wine spilt from his goblet then he whirled around and glared at her with sightless eyes. It took a moment of peering before recognition finally flickered in his expression and, once he understood who she was, he collapsed back in his seat with disappointment apparent. ‘You?' he sneered, draining the contents of his glass. A dribble spilt down his shirt before he hurled the empty glass toward the fireplace. ‘Are you all that's left?' he scoffed. ‘Or have they sent you here to taunt me? Are you someone's idea of a consolation prize?'

She was flustered by the question and hesitated before responding. Ginger had told her to remain on guard at the library of deeds and, until the moment when Lucy arrived, she had been hiding beneath the
record keeper's desk. The salty taste of the old man's last ejaculation still glossed her lower lip and the taste rekindled warm memories of serving someone and receiving their gratitude. She quashed that rebellious thought before it caused a bitter frown to cross her brow or made her address Donald with anything less than the utmost respect.

‘In . . . In the . . .' she began.

The words refused to come out as she laboured beneath Donald's thunderous frown and, for the first time in her life, she decided that being one of the household pets wasn't an enviable position. The worry of causing upset, and the impotence that came with the dilemma of every decision, made her wish that her vocation had never led her into the lowest ranks of submission and surrender. Fearfully, she cleared her throat and tried again.

‘In . . . In the library . . .'

She didn't know what she intended to say to him because this wasn't the conversation she had expected to have. Her mistress had insisted, if Lucy did appear in the library, she wanted to be the first to know. However, after scouring the length and breadth of the baronial hall and hearing rumours about a redheaded favourite making a spectacular break for freedom Ginger's pet blonde knew she would now be expected to share her information with the master. It was common knowledge among their hosts that he had taken his melancholia to the dining room, so locating Donald had not proved to be a problem. But, as she stared into his stern, uncompromising frown, she feared that finding the courage to speak might prove to be a greater hurdle.

‘In . . . In the library of deeds . . .'

He raised a hand and the wordless instruction was inarguable.

The dining room was identical to the one they used at their own baronial hall and filled with the same artefacts and decorations. It had a high, vaulted ceiling, stone walls that were positively medieval in style, and long, narrow windows that were all but useless for illumination. The candles that sat on the dining table offered weak, ineffectual flames but, if not for the presence of sconces and a massive chandelier, Ginger's pet blonde knew the room would have been held in a gloom of miserable shadows. She had seen all this before in the familiar surroundings of their own baronial hall and thought the most familiar sight was Donald raising his hand in a silent instruction for her to be quiet.

Frustrated, Ginger's pet blonde fell silent.

Donald studied her with his smile lilting hungrily. His gaze lingered on the shape of her breasts as they pushed at the flimsy fabric of her T-shirt and a cruel grin curled his upper lip.

Glancing down at herself, Ginger's pet blonde saw that the thrust of her nipples was obvious through the cotton. The circles of her areolae looked like dark stains beneath the otherwise unblemished white and she could see he had noticed the obvious symptoms of her arousal.

‘It seems we share a similar problem,' Donald intoned loftily. ‘Due to my lack of servants it would seem I have forgotten how to be a master. And, judging by the way you're ignoring the usual protocols, it would seem you've forgotten how to be a good servant.'

She steeled her jaw and wondered if she dared to blurt her news. She would have rushed the words, and gasped,
‘Lucy's in the library'
but she wasn't sure he would pay any heed to what she said. She had seen examples of his resolve before and knew that the master never listened when he was in a mood not to
hear. Meekly, she lowered her gaze and mumbled an apology.

‘You burst in on my privacy,' Donald grumbled. ‘You seem to have forgotten that I have a dress code for my servants when we're visiting a hall, and you ignore the rules that dictate how you should ask for a favour.' He reached for a candle from the table and gestured for Ginger's pet blonde to step closer.

A knife-blade of dread twisted in her stomach. Not daring to refuse, knowing the repercussions would be far worse if she showed any sign of insurrection, she did as he bade. Following another of his wordless instructions a pointed finger, flicked sharply upwards she peeled the T-shirt over her head. Her bare breasts were exposed for him but she noticed that the sight didn't dispel his solemnity. Rather than devoting his attention to her, he paid more attention to the flame of the tilted candle in his hand.

The length of yellow fire grew longer, as though aroused by her brazen display.

‘Take off those denim trousers as well,' he decided. ‘You shouldn't even be walking around this hall wearing your travelling clothes. What are our hosts going to think?'

She blushed, embarrassed to be criticised for this transgression. Ginger hadn't allowed her the chance to change clothes when they arrived at the hall and, although she had undressed once at the record keeper's insistence, the pet had dressed in the same outfit when she fled from the library of deeds. Wondering if there was still a chance to tell him about the runaway in the library of deeds, and avoid whatever torment he might be plotting, she hesitated with her hand on the waistband button of the jeans. Pessimism told her she was harbouring futile hopes but devotion prompted her to try.

‘Master,' she started. ‘Lucy is –'

‘Pass me an apple,' he demanded.

Shoulders slumped with defeat, she snatched a large Washington Red from a display in the centre of the table. He settled his candlestick back on the table before accepting the fruit, then wrapped an arm around her waist. The usual scents that she associated with Donald were hidden beneath a musk of wine and bitter perspiration. The touch of his hand was clammy against her flesh and she had to physically contain a shiver of revulsion when he leant closer to steal a kiss from her bare breast. His mouth was overly wet, slipping grotesquely against the swollen orb and slurping noisily around her nipple. The pleasure he usually invoked was somehow muted by his air of unhappiness. Knowing she could change all that with one sentence, sure she could banish his defeat with her news, she drew a deep breath and started again.

‘Lucy is –'

‘Lucy is another one of my charges who doesn't appreciate protocols,' Donald broke in. ‘Rather than follow her poor example I expect you to undress and obey me without speaking.'

‘But –'

She got no further.

He clamped one hand against the back of her neck and used the other to push the Washington Red into her mouth. Involuntarily, the muscles between her legs clenched and unclenched with savage need. She was used to Ginger's manhandling, and her sexual appetite thrived on her mistress's forcefulness, but Donald's superior strength was now taking that pleasure to an unexpected level. There was no sense of potential compromise within his strong hands and no fallacy of kindness. He was acting with brutal
disregard for her feelings and that lack of consideration made her need for him surge with bright fury.

She gasped, and made a token show of resistance, but they both knew she was there to yield to his every demand. Donald mumbled with impatience and pushed more vigorously. The apple forced her mouth wide and, as her teeth penetrated the sweet flesh, she realised he had effectively gagged her. Common sense told her she could easily have snatched the fruit from her mouth, and still explained that Lucy was in the library of deeds, but the glint in Donald's eyes made her realise that wouldn't be the best way to deal with this situation.

Knowing better than to argue, sensing that she had already exacerbated her forthcoming punishment more than was wise, Ginger's pet blonde kept the apple in her mouth and stepped out of the jeans.

There was no shame or indignity about standing naked in front of Donald. She had presented herself to him countless times before and only ever felt a thrill of anticipation. Even as his gaze returned to her bare breasts, and she watched him retrieve the candle from the table, the familiar thrill of excitement was merely heightened by a prickle of foreboding.

‘I never thought my rules were that difficult to follow,' he confided.

‘There has never been anything complicated to learn.' Donald toyed with the length of the candle while stroking one hand against her hip. His fingers kneaded and massaged the rounded swell at the top of her leg, his thumb occasionally caressing into the edge of her femoral triangle and inciting minor tremors of excitement. ‘Pets and favourites expect me to act like a master,' he grumbled. ‘And, in return, I expect you to act like servants. Where's the difficulty in that?' Rather than addressing Ginger's pet blonde,
his gaze switched between the flame on the candle and her bare breasts.

The treacherous tips of her nipples grew hard, as though they had intuited his intentions and were eager to experience that noxious brand of torment. Swallowing awkwardly around the apple, Ginger's pet blonde choked back a sigh of desperation. An echo of the pulse between her legs hammered deep within her temples.

‘There aren't many rules,' Donald continued plaintively. ‘And none of them are particularly difficult. But I would have thought one of the easiest ones to remember is: if you want a favour from the master, you have to ask him properly. If you want a favour from your master, it's a privilege that you have to earn.'

The hand on her hip gripped tightly. His fingers buried easily into her flesh.

His other hand jolted up and she saw the tip of the candle was on the same level as her face. All too clearly, she could see the pale yellow flame, the translucent end of the candle and the clear ball of liquid beneath the tip of the blackened wick. Above the cloying perfume of the Washington Red she caught the acrid tang of the candle's heat.