Prologue

Cornwall

 

Naked, back against the smooth painted plaster of the living-room wall, legs sprawled out before him on the chill parquet flooring; he looked on as she entered from the dining room carrying a chair.

Panic provoking hysteria, he watched her position it over and to either side of his feet before taking the single step required to bestride his body. Powerful legs, clad in the sheerest black hose, towering above his shivering frame as her eyes bore down into his own to intensify his terror.

Levels of empathy and warmth remarkable only for their complete absence.

Unlike him, she was fully dressed. Outfitted in a sombre, severely cut, two-piece suit in charcoal grey - crisp white shirt and matching accessories completing the ensemble. A uniform, of sorts, imparting an impression more redolent of authority than service; out of keeping with the position she held in his household yet apposite at one and the same time.

"Authority", he thought, loss matching terror, that had once been his; certain, as he watched hands rest on hips and an insolent tongue slither across somewhat inflated lips, it would never be gifted to him again.

As she stared down upon him, brown features implacable; yet unable to quite disguise their delight at the depths to which she had reduced him; his whole body became a film of perspiration. The subconscious divining her intention and reacting accordingly. Fear -along with levels of humiliation even he as a writer would be hard-pressed to describe- adding a perverse urgency to the throbbing at his groin.

A reaction to his situation, and another source of shame, he found difficult to reconcile with the man he had once believed himself to be.

Though not restrained in any way, movement was impossible -as was intelligible speech. All he could do was watch as she seated herself and slipped her feet from the spiked black court shoes that had pecked their way across the parquet towards him a few seconds earlier. The smell of moist nylon assailing his nostrils heightening a disgrace already functioning at high altitudes.

The position, gender and race, of his tormentor an unholy trinity in the mind of the man on the receiving end of her intentions

To allow this woman... this... girl... this... flunkey, to manipulate him in such a fashion was unthinkable and had to be... had to be...

So what, the above being true, he asked; self-castigation truncated by silent interrogation; explained the way his breath caught in his throat as she slowly slid her skirt over powerful young thighs to bunch it at her hips?

Why did the expanse of shiny black pantyhose, clinging to her legs so tightly, command his attention with more urgency than a nearby oasis dominated the thoughts of a thirsty nomad?

Why, as she undid the buttons of her shirt to reveal even more of the full breasts he had only recently noticed and developed such an infatuation for, was he unable to look away?

And why, finally; when the soles of her nylon-encased feet came to rest on his bare thighs; did his restricted breathing suddenly find release with a sigh that sounded, for the entire world, like a swoon?

"You want them?" she asked; the English in which she had an advanced degree of fluency unable to prevent the linguistic corruption resulting from the accent of her mother tongue. The cold implacability of her tone breaking the silence and belying her youth in a way he found utterly terrifying - even as his masculinity berated him for reacting in so spineless a way to someone so many years his junior.

With a supreme effort, he managed to nod, eyes halted on their unavoidable upward swing by a glimpse of her cleavage and remaining there. Astounded two such beauteous things could co-exist with the less than stunning visage above them.

And then, suddenly, his attention was elsewhere. Eyes lowering as the friction of her pantyhose against his manhood diverted his gaze to her feet. His tormentor's surprisingly dainty peds sliding along his penis, sole of each turned inwards, as the column betraying him found itself trapped between the high arches of her instep.

"Look at me," she demanded; the unfamiliar frisson of nylon against foreskin and the undeniable submissiveness inspired by the situation overwhelming him.

Her command, however, jolted him from his preoccupation just long enough for a modicum of spine to assert itself. It was one thing, after all, to debase himself in front of her in such a way. Quite another, he knew, to actually look into her eyes and see his disgrace and humiliation mirrored back at...

His body jack-knifed with agony as both his thoughts and his "Spine" vanished.

Suddenly; before his mini rebellion had any chance to morph into full-scale revolt; he was screaming.

Silently - unable to give voice to his pain.

His very life force sucked from him as his body spasmed involuntarily and he voiced soundless anguish towards the heavens; the same foot that had seconds ago been bestowing such intense and perverse pleasure upon him stamping down on his testicles; intent, it appeared, upon mashing the cylinders defining his masculinity into the wood of the parquet flooring itself.

"I warned you what would happen if you disobeyed," she said, eyes mocking as his agony increased and threatened to void his stomach of its contents.

Had it held any.

"Perhaps," she suggested with much relish; "you will find it easier to obey as a eunuch."

He could only watch with terror; eyes bugging from his head as she increased the downward pressure of her foot; soundless entreaties rising in intensity and going unheeded as she stood to gain more leverage in order to neuter him. Malevolent brown eyes finally displaying warmth as the pleasure she took in his unmanning went into overdrive prior to taking orbit as his masculinity and the testicles symbolising it, was crushed beneath her pretty young feet.

Any second now, he knew he would hear that inevitable "Squish!" sound as those same testicles burst outwards and flattened themselves to the floor; reducing him to something less than a man and something no more useful than a... than a...

Uncharted territory, pain levels soaring off the graph, that finally allowed him to give voice to his agony as he screamed and screamed and screamed and...

 

Chapter One

Anya

 

In the studio quarters allocated to her above the garage, Anya Jalav studied the five feet of her diminutive but full-bodied form in the bathroom's full-length mirror; pleased with the progress she was making with her older employer in the main house.

Entering the seventh month in her new position, she knew she had some way to go still, both youth and the sheer power of unfulfilled desire making her more impatient by the hour to reach her desired destination. Even if, with the help of a new friend, expectations of success for her endeavour grew at a corresponding rate.

As the Indian girl only recently turned twenty took in the shapely, if prematurely matronly, contours of her firm body and its magnificent breasts -those same breasts that, amazingly, had yet to know the caresses of a lover- she cursed the somewhat equestrian features of her face. Features, with large cheekbones and prominent overbite, she had to thank for the neglect extended to the rest of her body thus far. Accepting that the face her "Friend" described as: "oozing character", made what she had in mind for her handsome English "Master" so much more difficult.

Though not, she prayed, impossible.

For, despite her concerns at what rested atop her neck, the body below gave her little pause for thought. That, she was now assured, in no way presented a problem.

A loner by nature -and a preference confirmed by experience- her confidence in the body staring back at her from the mirror was both shared and bolstered by Rajiv, her aforementioned, new -and only- friend.

"Patience, my dear," her Internet mentor had told her earlier that evening, via the wonder that was Skype; connecting Cornwall to Calcutta in no more time than it took to take a sip of ice cold kucchi lassi. The same "Mentor" whose idea it had been to suddenly start addressing her employer with the old-fashioned form of respect.

A form of respect -as he had assured her it would- the man employing her would find curious to begin with but soon view favourably as his all too obvious vanity and self-importance kicked in.

"I have scrutinised the photos of yourself you attached to me," he all but leered. "Scrutinised them, very, very, closely - if you take my meaning. Trust me, my young friend, your charm may not be of a conventional nature but it is undeniably present and all the stronger for not being of the bland and uninteresting kind.

Anya felt her cheeks flush: criticism she was used to and could deal with; compliments called for a response alien to her experience.

"I speak," Rajiv was continuing, "of that bastardisation of womanhood represented by the bulimic stick insects the moronic magazines of mass culture label: 'Physically beautiful'."

As ever, the words of her new friend had instilled welcome assurance - much needed after yet another inspection of the looking glass and her: "Equestrian" features, as she had once heard them described. That same friend's on-screen face a visual corroboration of his existence and a compliment she had yet to return with the setting up of a webcam of her own.

"Your appeal to this man," he went on, the expression on his aged and fleshy, if still appealing, features giving witness to his seriousness; "must lie in more than just the allure of a pretty face, anyway."

"In that," she answered ruefully; features reflected back at her from the window behind the computer, "I hardly have a say," ending her complaint with a derisive snort.

Rajiv was sympathetic but firm:

"Do not despair over that which you can do nothing about," he advised her; sounding at times like this as if he were a venerable Japanese sensei rather than a sixty-something former clerical officer with the Indian Civil Service. "A discerning man will always take quality over prettiness alone and, trust me on this, your face suggests nothing if not character and moral fibre."

His words of reassurance on the subject winning him only a cynical:

"Hmmph!"

"Remember, Anya," he went on, neglecting to mention the perverseness of that 'Moral fibre': "to rush the process will be to invite failure. If he once suspects the nature of your intentions you will lose him and the journey will be over - for you as well as me. Be assured when I tell you that the opportunity to place your brand upon the tender white buttocks of such a creature is one that comes along all too rarely -perhaps only once, if we are lucky - in a single lifetime."

Though he was telling her no more than she had told herself on numerous occasions, Anya nodded at the screen containing her mentor and his habitual jogging-suit as if she were hearing his counsel on the subject for the first time and he was actually in a position to see her do it.

A favour he had extended to her and, as he frequently reminded her, waited with impatience to be returned.

"Keep in mind," he continued, "the nature of the prize lying in reward for the self-control I urge upon you."

"I seldom think of much else," she assured him.

"Yes," he could do no more than agree. "It is a heady prospect - especially for one of your tender years. A fellow human being as your chattel. Your creature. Complete control over an older man who once employed you. The same man who, at this moment, regards you as no more than a substandard form of life; placed on this earth with no greater purpose than to make his worthless existence more comfortable. A man, moreover, from whom you will have obliterated all traces of pride, masculinity and self-dependence until he looks to you for everything - even though he may hate you as he does so."

He gave his words some thought; sensing she was doing the same.

"As well as your possession, Anya, you must also think of him as your... creation."

He paused for a few moments more, knowing he had her full attention.

"If you do as I suggest," he began again, deadly serious, "your power over him will become total and irrevocable. He will look to you for everything and regard the smallest, most infinitesimally minute gesture of approval from you as if it were a gift from mother Kali herself.

She remained silent; sure her somewhat verbose mentor was not quite finished.

"More," he continued, not disappointing; "though he may continue to detest you for bringing him to such a pass, he will never possess the strength to deny you anything - even though he will, at times, make pitiful attempts to try. Each unsuccessful effort leaving him worse off than before."

At the last of his claims, an image had formed behind Anya's eyes.

She saw her still clothed body, hands-on-hips, as she stood in the large en-suite adjoining the main bedroom; her naked employer crouched on all fours at her feet as she stepped over his legs to bestride his back - his eyes, much to her gratification and in obedience to her instructions, lost in contemplation of the terra cotta floor tiles. Her employer supporting himself with his arms to remain in position while she raised her skirt and pulled her panties to one side; the shaking of his shoulders indicating he knew what was to come.

Lost to the desire inspired by her fantasy, Anya smiled as she saw a stream of hot, warm, urine gush from her pussy to saturate his hair and neck before trickling down his face towards nostrils and mou...

"How would you feel, dear Anya," her mentor's words cut into her daydream, "to return here to your hometown with a handsome and obedient English servant in tow?"

Coming back to planet earth with a thud, she allowed herself a smile at his words and forgave him his intrusion into her daydream. Ill-timed or not, the welcome nature of the prospect he dangled before her ensured she forgave his intrusion and made touchdown less anti-climactic.

"Consider," he urged, "the reaction of the sewer-stupid shits you told me made your time here in Calcutta such a torture. Imagine how their dismal and fixed little lives would be put in perspective to see the object of their taunts; elevated so far above them she is capable of commanding the obedience and devotion of such a possession."

Considering that "Reaction" gave her much pleasure.

"Tell me honestly, Anya," he pressed, "is the winning of such a prize not worthy of some small application of patience?"

Despite the familiar excitement his words instilled in her -not to mention flaunting her power in the faces of those "Little shits" who had indeed made her early years so miserable- Anya's hackles, as they always did whenever she was criticised unjustly, rose instantly.

"My impatience, Rajiv," she protested loudly and heatedly, correcting her fellow countryman and native of 'Kolkata'; "shows only when I speak with you on the subject of my prospective chattel."

The raised decibel levels, filling the room as she put him right, of no concern to her; knowing that -even in the unlikely event of her employer venturing near her quarters from the main house where she served as his housekeeper- he had no knowledge whatsoever of the Bengali in which their conversation was being conducted.

"I would not dream of ruining things at the crawling stage by attempting to run," she assured him. "Fate and good fortune have conspired to place me with the right man at both the right place and time. If you think I will allow such a gift to slip through my fingers you are a very deluded 'Mentor'."

It was a reprimand he accepted graciously and one she was sincere about, her earliest sexual memories having been of control. Power over another human being so strong it was unanswerable. The same thrill of dominion over an unwilling man of greater years she had been able to experience up to now only through her dreams and the wonder of the net that fuelled them. The same "Dreams" she had now committed herself to knowing in the first-person.

"That is reassuring to hear, my sweet," the strong male voice told her. "You are, after all, at a very delicate stage. Though do bear in mind it will serve you well to disregard your baseless concerns regarding your features. You have far, far, far, more than an appealing face in your favour - at least if the pictures you attached to me do not lie. I assure you, were I of the opposite sexual mindset in such matters, I believe I could very quickly become obsessed with the power inherent in that young body you have kept under wraps for so long."

Despite her distrust of flattery -possibly from not having much experience of the phenomenon- Anya felt her face flush with pleasure at the compliment - even as another thought occurred to the "Sensei":

"Tell me, Anya," he asked, "do you ever question why you are the way you are?"

Her response was as instant as it was emphatic:

"Never."

"Really?" he asked. "Are you not curious at least?"

"To what end?" she answered - a little dismissively he thought. "What would be achieved? Does fire burn any less brightly for our knowing how it finds its heat? These are feelings and desires I have known for as long as I can remember. Rather than question satisfaction I prefer to enjoy it. We are what we are, after all. You as much as me."