Fifty Shades of Submission (27 page)

“Do you understand?” my father repeated coldly.

“I understand, father.”

My mistress is dressed in her long sable fur coat with its high fur collar.

“We’
re going out,” she says to me. “I feel like walking.”

Outside it’
s another cold wintry day and I shiver in my thin T-shirt, jeans and sandals. Saskia, on the other hand, looks snug and regal in her dark brown sable, like a beautiful and dangerous lioness on the prowl.  It never ceases to give me pleasure to watch the graceful way in which she moves - back straight, head erect, limbs gliding fluidly as though she is floating on air.

She hooks her arm through mine. “This is just like the old days, when we were lovers,
isn’t it?” she says. “I did love you once, you know. In my own way.”

A cold shiver runs through me.

She pulls me closer to the soft, luxuriant fur of her coat. “Poor slave, you are turning blue from the cold. I should have been more considerate and got you something warm to wear. Are you freezing?”

I shake my head. “No
, mistress.”

She laughs playfully. “Liar! Your teeth are chattering!”

We are walking along the banks of the small lake near the house, it is a typical cloudless winter’s day and the water of the lake shimmers brightly in the pale early morning sunlight. The air is crisp and filled with incense from the burnt grass of the fire breaks the farmers had been burning along the edge of the blue-gum forest the day before.

Just
then we hear the sound of galloping hooves and a rider on a black horse comes into view, galloping towards us at speed. As soon as he sees my mistress he reins in the beast and stops close by. She looks up at him, their eyes meet, and there is an instant attraction between them like palpable electricity – it is the meeting of the lioness and the lion.

My heart stops when I see the half-surprised, half-enraptured look with which she devours
the stranger. He is a magnificent specimen of man – tall, muscular, handsome chiselled features, dark brooding eyes, and thick black hair swept back from his brow. He is almost too beautiful to be a man, and there is a curious a tinge of cruelty that shadows a full and petulant mouth.

He
is wearing black riding boots, white leather riding breeches, and a white shirt. He has a riding crop in one hand and sooths his horse’s neck as the beast stamps around restlessly, eager to be given full rein again.

The stranger tilts his head
at my mistress and smiles with a flash of perfect white teeth. “I believe we are neighbours,” he says, his voice heavily accented. “I am Vassily Primakov. I own the farm next-door.”

The accent and the name are unmistakably Russian.

My mistress introduces herself and his smile widens into a lazy, insolent grin. “I hope you don’t mind me riding on your land. I like the view from up here and usually it is deserted.”

“N
ot at all,” my mistress assures him quickly. Her voice is weak. I have never seen her so excited.

The Russian’s horse stamps about
agitatedly. He leans forward and rubs its neck calmingly once more. He looks down at my mistress and grins. “My stallion is restless. I should be off. It was nice meeting you.” He digs his heels into the flanks of the beast and gallops off at speed.

She watches
till he disappears completely from view. “Let’s go back to the house,” she says. “I’m tired of walking.” Her cheeks are on fire and her green eyes are burning as if with a fever.

When we get home she hurries
upstairs, and orders me to follow. In her little sitting room she begins to pace back and forth like a caged animal.

"Oh, what a man! Did you see him? What do you think of him? Tell
me!"

I shrug.
"Handsome, confident," I reply dully, freighted by her fervour.

"Yes, he
is
exquisitely beautiful, isn’t he?" She pauses and leans against the wall. For a moment she looks as though she might faint.  "He has taken my breath away! I feel quite light-headed."

"I can
understand the impression he has made on you, mistress" I reply carefully. "I can imagine—"

She laughs out
loud, cutting me short. "You may
imagine
that this man is going to be my lover! In fact, I will guarantee it! And maybe I will even allow him to apply the whip to you, and perhaps you will enjoy being punished by him. Perhaps he can take over from me because I am so utterly weary of you!” She spits out the last words with a deep and hateful venom.

It is only hours since she first saw him, but already my mistress has found out a great deal about her mysterious and handsome Russian neighbour. It turns out that he is in his late thirties, extremely wealthy, and unattached. Apparently there was a wife in his past but no one seems to know much about her. He is known in the area for his harsh treatment of his staff and is not very well liked by his neighbors. Most people think him rude and arrogant.

"All in all, then, a man,"
my mistress says with satisfaction, her eyes glowing feverishly.

"
He sounds dangerous, mistress. Are you not afraid of him?”

“I
am
afraid of him – that’s why I find him so exciting!”

I am
afraid of him too, but for different reasons. It is clear that my mistress is besotted with him. I have never seen her so breathless and excited and agitated.

My mistress relates
everything she has found out so far about the dark stranger. Vassily Primakov is not only handsome, but also vain. He is fastidious about his clothes and changes four or five times a day. Local legend has it that a young woman once fell passionately in love with him. She invaded his home and threw herself down at his feet and threatened to kill herself if he did not take her in his arms and love her.

"I am sorry," he had replied, smiling down at her, unmoved, "I should like to do you the favor, but you will have to carry out your threat, for I will never love you as long as I live."

“What happened to the girl, mistress?”

My mistress
smiled dreamily. “According to the locals, the girl did indeed kill herself. She hung herself in Vassily’s barn a few days later. Oh, what a man! A man of conviction and principles! The kind of man I could love in an instant!”

She has invited the Russian
for tea and has taken all day to groom herself and prepare for his arrival. She has made me bath her and brush her hair and manicure her nails as though she were a bride preparing for her wedding night. Then she lay on her bed and spread her legs and made me shave the pubic hair around the lips of her vagina. I found the experience intensely sexual and intimate and exciting.

She made me shave her armpits and then she gave me a bottle of fragrant oil to rub all over her body, front and back. She lay back and closed her eyes and I lingered particularly around her breasts and groin and inner thighs. Then she told me to lubricate her anus and vagina. I did as I was told. My
fingers slipped in and out of her vagina smoothly and rhythmically and lingered there. My hands began to tremble and I could scarcely breathe. My cock strained painfully against its cruel steel confines.

My mistress opened her eyes suddenly and was watching me. “Are you getting excited, slave?”

I swallowed hard. “Yes, mistress.”

“Do you covet your mistress’s body?”

I ran my tongue over my dry lips. “Yes, mistress.”

“Do you want to fuck me?”

“Only if it pleases my mistress.”

“
Poor slave! You will be far better off when I turn you into my eunuch. That will be the end of your sexual suffering. Now get on with it, I still need to get dressed before Vassily arrives.”

The Russian
has arrived. He came on horseback and is wearing a long black leather coat over his jodhpurs, which accentuates his tall, muscular figure. He certainly is beautiful to look at - an arrogant tyrant who plays with the lives of women.

He stands in the
little sitting room upstairs, larger than life, waiting for my mistress to appear. He looks about him then turns his gaze on me for an uncomfortably long time.

“Who are you?” he demands.

How should I answer?

“I serve my mistress
,” I say at last.

He cocks a black eyebrow and grunts
. “A manservant in this day and age?”

I am seized by
fear under his icy black stare.
His masculinity is brutal. We are complete opposites. Compared to him I am soft and weak. He is as strong and hard and cold as steel.

I have a
sudden foreboding that this fierce and ruthless man will enslave Saskia will subjugate her as no other man has ever been able to. In this relationship he will be the master and she is the submissive. If she did not kneel obediently at his feet he would break her.

I am filled with
feverish jealousy - and abject despair.

With an
arrogant nod of the head he hands me his coat. I take it and he collapses lazily onto the chaise longue and lights a thin cigar.

My entire body tremb
les with resentment. I long to meet him on common ground so that we, as men, can fight for the hand and affections of my mistress. But in my heart I know that if it ever came to a physical contest, he would easily overpower me with his bare hands – and would probably beat me to death.

A
t last my mistress appears. She has gone to great lengths to make herself look particularly attractive. Her red hair lies on her shoulders like liquid fire. Her eyes burn with excitement as they rest on the Russian.

Then she gives me a cold,
angry look. “What are you still doing here?
Get out!”

I have been standing and waiting on the landing outside her closed sitting room door for hours. I strain my ears but can only hear muffled voices. Now and then I hear her flirtatious laughter ring out.

The afternoon draws on and finally it is dark outside. She rings for coffee and cognac and I serve them. They are both reclining on the chaise,
engaged in conversation, she with her head nestled on his shoulder. His white shirt is open at the neck and I can see his thick matted chest hair.

She
doesn't even look at me. I begin to pour.

She looks into his dark eyes. "And so, w
hat about the lioness?" she says, continuing the conversation that I had interrupted.

"When the lion whom she has chosen and with whom she lives is attacked by another," the Russian continues his narrative, "the lioness quietly lies down and watches the males battle. Even if her mate is defeated she will not go to his aid. She looks on indifferently as he bleeds to death under his opponent's claws. Then she follows the victor, the stronger of the two males — that is the essence of a female's nature."

His words make me shudder. The serving tray falters in my hands, and he casually reaches for the whip that’s lying on the floor next to him.

“Are all your servants so clumsy, my dear?
Is that why you keep a whip handy?”

“Not all,”
my mistress sighs. “This one is particularly tiresome. I beat him regularly to keep him on his toes. Feel free to use the whip on him if he annoys you – he’s used to it. He enjoys being ill-treated.”

The first light of
morning is starting to seep through the blinds of my room. The red dawn immerses the room in an eerie red glow, like blood.

The Russian
has stayed the night and now, finally, I hear him leave. I get up and open my door slightly and peer through the crack and see him kiss my mistress passionately on the landing upstairs. She leans into him and he towers over her, wrapping his body around her. His hand is buried intimately between her thighs, massaging her vagina while he pushes his tongue into her mouth. Finally he pulls away, gives her a firm slap on the buttocks, grins, and runs down the stairs two at a time, while pulling on his leather coat.

He opens the front door and is swept away into the red glow of
dawn.

I go
upstairs. "Do you need anything, mistress?" I ask, my voice faltering.