Foreword

By

St John Wilson

 

Balliol College

It was in the autumn of 2009, well into the calamity that had rocked the world's financial institutions and sent economies reeling, that I rented a house in Oxford that was a leisurely stroll to my Alma Mater of Balliol and - more importantly for my research into the life of the undeservedly neglected composer and 18th Century musician, Giovanni Battista Viotti - the various Bodleian Libraries; that I came across the script you are about to read.

It was while exploring the, in common with Viotti, neglected attic of the old but spacious three-bedroom terraced house I had taken for the duration of my stay - this with the intention of setting up my study to take advantage of the view comprising various dreaming spires as I wrote - that I came across a battered tea-chest left by the former occupiers.

Naturally curious (almost to the point of prurience, I confess), I soon found myself rifling through the various documentation of bills and letters in English until I came across a manuscript around halfway down the box.

It was written in Hindi and, having spent my formative years with my Foreign Office father and long-suffering mother in Northern India's Haryana before leaving to study in England, I remained fluent in both the speaking and the reading of the tongue.

In possession of the Trust from my late-parent's estate and with no pressing money problems - even in such parlous times - it was perhaps understandable I should have been tempted to take a break from my research of the neglected Viotti and devote my industry to a reading and then a translation of what, the writer protested, was an adventure from true-life.

A temptation proving too great to resist.

And especially after I had read the first few paragraphs of a manuscript titled:

"Dayamai and Her Chattel".

It was, it turned out, written by the Indian woman who I discovered lived in the house with its English owner prior to my renting of it; much of my later knowledge derived from those benefitting from the owner's passing.

More of which will become clear as you read on and will mostly be found in the Postscript supplied at story's end.

The manuscript itself was handwritten in a novelistic style and, intrigued by its title, I immediately took it downstairs and set myself up with a pot of tea in the kitchen before seating myself at the table to begin a fuller exploration of its contents.

An exploration which immediately galvanised both my interest and my attention - Viotti completely forgotten at that point and still to be revisited in the passing of the years since - and would later turn out to be all the more compelling in a low and base way for the events of the script turning out to be of factual rather than fictional provenance.

If after reading those same contents you share my original scepticism on their behalf, then be assured, from the inquiries I made afterwards from various neighbours, friends and acquaintances of the deceased man himself, the narrative of its writer is of neither the fevered nor fanciful fictional variety and, I must confess, disturbed me in ways I found almost as surprising as I found them shaming.

The former explained in part by the coincidental but no less disturbing similarities between myself and the description of the man described in the narrative.

What questions remain - at least in regard of me - must remain the responsibility of your own imaginations to answer, as I have already revealed more of myself than I intended.

St John Wilson

Rye

Kent

2022

 

Note:

You will find that the author describes herself as a humble Indian woman of lower education, despite her fluency when speaking English. This may not sit well with the fact that my translation may indicate a more academic background.

Not being a writer of fiction (I see this as more biography) my translation tends to be written in a voice with which I am comfortable but could seem strange coming from the lips of a woman of self-confessed humble social and academic background.

My apologies for my lack of the necessary skills required to make her voice sound authentic and I only pray this does not dampen your interest in a tale which, as far as I can verify, appears completely authentic and factual - if, at its end, tragic.

 

Dayamai

 

Varanasi

My name is Dayamai Chabra a forename in my tongue that means 'compassionate'.

You may take my word for the fact that compassion is the last thing I feel for the smug, egotistic and entitled Englishman whose pulsing white cock throbs imprisoned in my hand and the last word the man himself would use to describe me.

An Englishman whose need for me ensures his obedience to a person he despises.

You can believe me when I tell you that his hatred of me is not only something I find amusing but welcome.

Especially when he is so far gone in his sexual and domestic subservience to me that he would never dare become too obvious in his... distaste.

And especially at times such as these.

It really is too delicious and I ask you to picture, if you will, the angry lacerations crisscrossing the taut skin of his foreskin from thrusting unsuccessfully against the metal cage in which it had been locked up until a few minutes ago.

The sense of self-satisfaction I feel for having debased this pompous man to such a degree truly is overwhelming and is matched only by my anticipation of how far I have still to lower him.

Many of you reading this will not be thinking too highly of me at this point and, should you reach my story's end, are unlikely to feel any warmer towards either me or my actions at the conclusion of what remains a still enduring true-life slice of auto-biography. That said, however, I am equally convinced that a number of you - men and women both - find a certain erotic, maybe even shockingly and disturbingly so, charge to the events I am about to describe. This in spite of the fact I am not a professional writer. so urgently against the metal bars containing it not minutes before, adding yet another visual element to the meeting of East and West.

As well as confirming the triumph of the former.

"Me"

The striking looking man had been a self-entitled snob and racist when I met him and was no different now I felt sure. At least in his unspoken thoughts. |So, to find himself in thrall to the Indian woman he had initially hired to skivvy for him was a humiliation almost physical to him.

So why, kneeling on the floor as I manipulated his erect and finally free cock, did he allow himself to suffer under it, you ask?

We will come to that.

For now, let me explain that I am just a humble woman from the Uttar Pradesh - Varanasi, to be precise; though it is still known as Banaras or Benares, and in ancient times as Kashi, a city on the Ganges river in northern India that has a central place in pilgrimage, death, and mourning in the Hindu world.

It is also a...

But enough.

This is neither geography nor history - except that of the most personal kind - and if I feel myself grow impatient to get to the meat of my story then anyone reading this at some future date will no doubt feel the same.

And enough snippets of personal history - his and mine - will be divulged as we move on for a fuller picture of us both to emerge.

It is enough to say that I am of humble origins and remain something of a racist myself towards men of his colouring.

And, given the history of my country and a civilisation that predates his by many centuries, ESPECIALLY the English!

It made my enslavement of his mind and body all the more satisfying.

Using two fingers either side of his raging erection, both to titillate further and to increase his humiliation for knowing I could control him so easily, I began to slowly tease his taut and lacerated foreskin up and down - my own excitement, as it always did when exercising such command over him, rising as the breath of the older white man who had once considered himself my superior caught in his throat.

No longer were words necessary to heighten his shame and highlight my control of him and I simply gave his cock a firm squeeze, robbing him of what rasping breath he had as his eyes rolled in his head and the growing pressure inside his swollen balls ensured he approached a crisis he knew he could not allow without my permission.

Knowing also how I would punish him if he disobeyed.

And in a variety of ways.

Ways that were demeaning and adolescent to him and utterly thrilling for yours truly.

Not to mention lasting in their effect.

The eyes rolling in their sockets of my plaything found mine suddenly and the beseeching look they gave me was almost enough to make me finish him there and then that he might put his tongue to the use to which it had been trained.

By me.

As always, the knowledge I had stripped this formerly proud but pompous man of his manhood thrilled me to my core and it was with my own exciting building and what I pictured making him do afterwards that had the permission exiting my own plump and anticipatory lips...

"Cum..."

 

The Beginning

 

It was my feet that proved his downfall.

That is right, your eyes do not deceive you and you do not mistake either my words or my intent.

No doubt you who are reading this are already describing me to yourselves as both a fantasist and self-deceiving; though only in the former respect would you be correct.

And even then I had every intention of bringing my long-held fantasies to life.

In a way I hoped would be both real and irreversible for the man seated across from me.

So, yes; it was the feet of a humble Indian woman in her mid-thirties that started the oh so important Mr Vernon Lampeter (BPhil., MSt.) on his slide to obsession and servitude.

Not so shocking really.

At least not to me.

Not when I had pictured such a thing the whole of my childhood and into the adult life I found so unfulfilling.

After our first interview and the obvious interest he had tried to hide without success in my long toes and the crimson nails I had painted only that same morning that I might at least look presentable as I suffered beneath his patronising and self-regarding interrogation of me - an inquisition made in order to satisfy himself I was worthy enough to take on the role of his live-in housekeeper - I was soon familiarising myself online on the subject of the fetish in men.

It was, to say the least, eye-opening.

And particularly for a woman such as myself who had long held similar interests on the subject even if it was from an entirely different perspective.

The nature of his interest making an instant connection with certain fantasies and desires I had held from childhood and appealed to the controlling nature that had already pronounced itself much taken with the smug and striking Englishman in his late-forties - even if he did look much younger.

As I sat before him on that June day during the summer of 2004 and listened to him outline my duties - should my application be successful - in his pompous and condescending tones, I realised he was everything my schoolgirl dreams had pictured when fantasising about the man I would enslave and dominate.

Fantasies I was long past youthful hopes of ever having fulfilled that his obvious interest in my feet kicked back into life with a vengeance.

As well as assuring me I would most likely be successful in my application to become his housekeeper.

Not that I am a woman of great beauty, you understand? Were that the case I would hardly have been applying for such a position in the first place. But there is a certain feline quality to my somewhat fleshy features with their pronounced cheeks, thin nose and full plump lips that has proved appealing to certain men of my own race - even if none as yet had proved either appealing or solvent enough given the nature of my own desires.

The thick black hair I took pains to keep scraped from those features and tied at the back only served, I knew, to highlight the kittenish aspects of my face that did much to hide to hide an inner mindset that was anything but cute and cuddly.

Clothed in the unflattering garments traditional to a humble Indian woman of parents whose religious beliefs were as strict as their lives were poverty sticken, the full and firm breast beneath such camouflage and the thick but shapely legs at an even lower altitude could only be guessed at but were impossible to conceal entirely.

And my feet, even amongst the Indian men I encountered, seldom failed to gain interest.

On many occasions when younger, it had amused me to see the eyes of men seem riveted by the merest glimpse of my feet below the cheap cotton trousers my parents insisted I, as a good god-fearing Hindu girl, insisted upon my wearing along with the obligatory saree; though even this concealment of my upper body seemed to serve only to make men more interested in the perfectly shaped and painted toes that were available to their gaze.

An interest that was not absent in my prospective employer during that first interview and one that pretty much determined me to see how far I could take it should - as I was growing more confident I would - land the position the humble but now extremely promising position as his live-in housekeeper.

"Your English appears good, even if your pronunciation could use some improvement," he told me with all the superiority he seemed to think his country of birth entitled him, despite the fact it was a long way past anything resembling the pre-eminence it once enjoyed.

The agency recommending me for the position had told me he was a Professor on contract to the university where he lectured on English Literature at the BHU and, no doubt, he felt it no more than his natural right for his own native tongue to be favoured over our own.

Despite the fact he was a guest living and working in my country.

"I like my privacy and a quiet household," he went on to explain with the superior condescension I took as second nature with him - at least when dealing with those he probably regarded as being 'of my ilk'.

For the moment, I was content to endure his - to be charitable - unintentional contempt.

The images I had snatched of him when he had been stealing looks of his own at my feet were pleasing to me and I could do more than admit that, despite nearer fifty than forty, he was still a handsome and physically fit looking man.

An older and mature Englishman who was, for all intents and purposes, a near perfect prototype of the white serf my fevered dreams from childhood onwards had pictured to ensure my fingers became... agitated... if you take my meaning as I am sure you do.

Anyhow, the realisation of my attraction more than offset my dislike of him and the position he was describing to me prior, I felt certain, to offering it.

Attraction becoming even more marked when I considered what I had already promised myself I would work to bring about.

The unrealistic nature of my promise, so great was my excitement for simply contemplating it, not strong enough to throw cold water on my expectations at such a point.

"As agreed with your agency," he told me, "I'll provide you with a much higher than average income and accommodations, but, in return, I will expect you to go about your chores and responsibilities exactly as I wish them to be discharged."

Careful to keep my eyes lowered deferentially - submissively; knowing instinctively he would like this and take it as a compliment to his own superiority, I waited for the next tablets of English stone to be delivered to my increasingly irritated ears.

"Do you understand, Dayamai?" he asked, using my forename for the first time while still contriving to remain on a superior and formal level.

"Of course, Sir," I'd answered, outrage at the base of my throat not far from becoming bile for acting so obsequiously before a man it was fast becoming my most fervent wish to own.

I almost swooned at the power of my own thoughts.

"To own!"

Careful not to meet his eyes; sensing, even at such an early stage, that a submissive attitude towards him on my part would be something the obvious self-regard of my English employer would find appealing as well as natural, I tried to keep the excitement and arousal from my warming cheeks as I pictured him with his lips attached to my toes as he genuflected before me.

I have no idea if he notice my state of agitation or not but later assured myself that, if he had, then his considerable vanity would no doubt have mistaken it for exhilarated anticipation of being allowed to enter his service.

A few questions more, during which he could not help his eyes wandering to my feet whenever he thought I would not notice - and thought wrong - and he seemed satisfied that, though no scholar, my education would at least enable me to follow simple instruction and that my basic diploma in computer studies would be of some use to his household for the simple matter of paying bills and utilities and the ordering of goods.

And in this he was not wrong.

It would be extremely useful.

Of use to me.