Perfect Slave (5 page)

She decided to stay the night, and had gone to the loo. On the way back she knocked into a shelf of books in the hall. One of them fell to the floor, and as she stooped to pick it up she saw the graphic photograph on the cover. There was a girl in a tight leather corset, black stockings and high-heels spread-eagled across a bed, her wrists and ankles bound by coils of white rope. Standing by the side of the bed was a man, his face deliberately obscured by the photographer. He wore nothing but a pair of tight leather trousers. The expression on the girl's face was one she could not forget. It was of unbelievable excitement, mixed with fear. Later she realised she was reading her own emotions into what was probably nothing more than a blank stare, imagining how it would feel to be tied like that, bound and helpless like that, vulnerable and exposed.

She hadn't asked Steve about the book. She was too embarrassed by the feelings it generated in her. But when she got back to the bedroom, the cover still vividly in her mind, she'd been unable to control herself. She'd come almost before he entered her, not the pusillanimous climaxes of old but a rip-roaring orgasm that tore through every nerve in her body. And she came again and again, the cover photograph printed indelibly in her mind, as though it had been branded there. That was her first real orgasm.

The next day she rushed to a bookshop and found the book. She read it from cover to cover. The sexual imagery haunted her. She had no idea that people indulged in such practises. She'd masturbated twice before she got to the end, and come in seconds.

She could not work out why the photograph touched her so deeply, or what traits in her psychological make-up inspired such needs; only that they did. At first the power of it frightened her and she would admit it to no one, not even herself. Gradually she had come to accept and explore it. Whether tonight would be part of that exploration, she did not know.

The car was pulling through the tall wire gates of the heliport. Andrea could see a large white helicopter, standing on one of the pads with its rotor blades turning lazily, the uniformed crew in the cockpit, with clipboards on their knees going through the pre-flight checks.

 

‘I'm Laurie Angelis, Mr Hawksworth's major-domo.'

‘Pleased to meet you.'

Laurie opened the door of the Range Rover and Andrea climbed inside. It was a relief to get out of the wind the helicopter was creating. As soon as Laurie got behind the wheel beside her the helicopter's engines roared again and it lifted off. Andrea guessed they were going to collect other guests.

‘Did you have a good trip?'

Laurie was one of the most beautiful women Andrea had ever seen. She had long black hair, that seemed to shine with health, a rather long face with a straight nose, high cheekbones and the darkest of brown eyes and a sleek, svelte body that reminded Andrea of a racehorse. She wore a one-piece cat-suit that clung to the considerably curvy contours of her body and her impossibly long legs, its V-neck revealing a deep cleavage, and high-heel black boots.

‘Wonderful. I'd never been in a helicopter before.'

‘Good. Mr Hawksworth is waiting for you.'

‘This is a beautiful place.'

‘It is.' The last two words were said in a tone that did not encourage further conversation.

As the Range Rover approached the tall brick wall Andrea had seen from the helicopter, Laurie operated a small switch on the dashboard and two wooden gates in front of them on the drive swung open, closing again the moment they had passed through. The brunette drove up to the porticoed entrance, wheeling the car around in a complete circle so that the passenger door was closest to the panelled front door. It opened as the car came to a halt.

‘My dear, how nice of you to come.' Charles Darrington Hawksworth opened the passenger door. He was wearing a dark suit, a white shirt and a yellow silk tie, and held his hand out to help her from her seat.

‘It was nice of you to invite me,' she said.

She stood on the gravel drive and faced him, her hand still held in his. He brought it up to his lips and kissed it so gently it made her shiver. Then he looked up at her. She had never been so close to him before, and the power of his eyes was totally compelling, transfixing her for a moment, like a rabbit caught in the headlights of a car. He made no attempt to move or release her hand, but just stood there, studying her intently.

‘How rude of me,' he said suddenly. ‘Please come inside.'

He dropped her hand and led her through the front door. The house was huge and immaculately decorated, no expense spared in either the furniture or the décor. As Charles Hawksworth ushered her into a large sitting room Andrea noticed the collection of impressionists on the wall, a Matisse and a Gauguin among them. There was a large stone fireplace and a smouldering log fire. She also realised there were no other guests. Not yet, at least.

‘I've opened a rather nice bottle of Perrier Jouet Belle Epoque,' he said, indicating a green bottle sitting in a Georgian silver wine cooler swathed in ice. ‘Would you have a glass?'

‘That would be lovely.'

‘You are looking quite wonderful tonight. That dress is perfect on you.'

‘Thank you.'

There were two crystal champagne flutes next to the wine cooler on the mahogany occasional table, beside a large cream sofa. Charles poured the wine into the glasses and handed Andrea one.

‘Cheers,' he said. ‘Here's to bravery.'

‘Bravery?' she queried.

‘I think it was very brave of you to accept my invitation. You have no idea what might lie in store for you.'

Andrea laughed lightly. ‘That's precisely why I came,' she said.

‘Good.' They clinked their glasses together then sipped the wine.

‘So why did you ask me here?' Andrea asked.

‘Very direct. I like that. I asked you here because I think you are an exceptionally beautiful woman.'

‘The world is full of beautiful women,' she said coolly.

It was his turn to laugh. ‘Perfectly true. Perhaps we should go into dinner.'

‘Am I the only guest?'

‘Of course,' he said.

Andrea felt her heart thumping. She'd become so convince that she was only going to be one of many that the revelation that he'd brought her all this way to dine alone dramatically increased her excitement.

He led her through to a small, intimate dining room with scarlet walls and a circular dining table covered with a crisp white linen cloth. It was laid with crystal glasses, solid Georgian silver and a candelabrum that held four tall white candles. A maid with curly auburn hair stood by the doors that clearly led to the kitchen. She was wearing an extremely abbreviated black dress that revealed most of her shapely legs, black fishnet tights and a little white lace apron. Her shoes where black too, with remarkably high heels, which was odd considering she was going to have to work in them, but it was not the oddest thing about her. Around her neck she wore a stainless steel collar, about an inch thick. Attached to the front of the collar was a small steel ring.

‘Tell chef we're ready,' Hawksworth said.

‘Yes, sir,' the girl replied, turning at once and going to the kitchen.

‘I hope you like French food.'

The meal was delicious and Charles Hawksworth was totally charming and totally attentive. He asked her about her work and about Silverton and told her, in turn, why he believed in the future of the company.

It was not until coffee was served in delicate china cups that Andrea, emboldened perhaps by the premier cru served with the meal, returned to the subject that was her major concern.

‘You didn't answer my question,' she said.

‘What question was that?'

‘Why you invited me here, rather than any one of a hundred other beautiful women I'm sure you meet every day.'

He smiled. ‘Would you like a brandy?'

‘No, thank you.'

‘I hope you don't mind if I do.' He gestured to the maid, who was still standing by the kitchen door, and she immediately left the room. ‘Do you mind if I am perfectly frank with you?'

‘No.'

‘I am a rich man, Andrea. I have been a rich man for quite a long while. And the biggest advantage of being rich is that it means I can get whatever I want. My slightest desire, my smallest whim can be catered for.'

‘I can understand that,' Andrea said.

‘Good.' He paused, bringing those deep blue eyes to bear on her again. For a moment the world stood still. ‘My wealth, naturally enough, allows me to develop certain... tastes.'

Andrea's pulse was racing. The palms of her hands were sweaty and she was having trouble remembering to breath.

‘It also seems that I have an intuitive ability to know whether women share these tastes. That, in a nutshell, is why I asked you to come here.'

‘You've only seen me once in that conference room,' Andrea said, trying to keep the emotion out of her voice.

‘Perfectly true. And of course I may be wrong about you. Absolutely and totally wrong. In that case we will have had a pleasant and enjoyable evening together, and that will be that.'

‘And if you are right?'

‘Then we will I hope have a great deal more to share with each other.'

The auburn-haired maid came back into the room with a silver tray, a crystal decanter and two balloon glasses. She set the tray down on the dining table.

‘Are you sure you won't change your mind?'

Andrea needed a drink to calm her nerves. ‘I will.'

The maid poured the brandy. It was a liquid amber, like autumn leaves. She put the stopper back in the decanter and went back to stand by the door.

‘I think you should get to the point,' Andrea said bravely. So far everything she had suspected about Charles Hawksworth was true. She was sure now he knew all her secrets.

He smiled. ‘You are aware of the expression that a picture is worth a thousand words?'

‘Yes.'

‘Are you easily shocked?'

‘I don't think so.'

‘Good. Then perhaps I should give you a little demonstration.' He beckoned to the maid. ‘Julia, how would you rate your performance tonight?'

‘I spilled the wine, sir.' During the main course the maid had spilled three or four drops of the wine on the table cloth.

‘Laurie would normally take care of disciplining such small annoyances, but tonight I would like to show my guest how we deal with these matters.'

‘Yes, sir.'

‘You know what to do.'

‘In here, sir?'

‘No, in the sitting room. We'll bring our own glasses.'

Julia immediately walked out, not by the kitchen door this time, but into the hall that led to the sitting room.

‘Julia has been with us now for three months. She's worked out very well, all things considered.'

Andrea's heart was beating so fast she could hear it in her eardrums. ‘What are you going to do?'

‘Bring your glass; you'll see.'

Charles got up and came around to the back of Andrea's chair. For a moment she thought he was going to put his hand on her shoulder, but instead he pulled her chair out from the table.

They walked together into the sitting room.

At first Andrea did not see the maid. She was hidden by the bulk of the large cream sofa. But then as they got closer she came clearly into view, and Andrea stopped dead in her tracks. She felt the blood rush to her cheeks. What she saw confirmed everything she had suspected. Charles Hawksworth knew her probably better than she knew herself.

Julia was bending over in front of the large fireplace, her legs spread wide apart and her hands gripping her ankles. She had pulled the tight dress up over her hips so it was bunched around her waist. The fishnet tights were pulled down around her thighs, her buttocks naked but for a pair of tiny black panties. She had pulled the gusset of the panties into a tight string that cut deeply into the valley between her meaty buttocks and her labia, and Andrea could see the curly auburn hair that surrounded them.

Charles walked up to her and put his hand on her back. The girl started slightly. Then he turned and looked straight at Andrea, those searching eyes staring right into hers.

‘I see I have made my point,' he said quietly. Without a word he went to the side of the fireplace. Andrea couldn't think how she hadn't seen it before, but there, in an elaborate china umbrella stand, was a selection of leather whips. Charles Hawksworth extracted a short riding crop and came back to Julia.

‘Three, I think.'

Without looking at Andrea he raised the whip, then swept it down firmly against Julia's buttocks. Her flesh trembled and she gave a little coughing sound, her fingers gripping her ankles more firmly.

‘Thank you, sir, may I have another?'

‘Certainly you may.'