Chapter 8

After getting changed into her maid's uniform, Carol was only just in time reporting for duty in the foyer of the brothel and to avoid a repremand fof tardyness. This evening's receptionist, a blonde girl wearing only a pair of French knickers, stiletto heels and a velvet choker, gave Carol a dirty look before going back to adjusting the chain that connected her two nipple rings. "What's up with her?" Carol whispered to Jane out of the corner of her mouth.

In an equally quiet voice, the more experienced maid explained to the new girl that the receptionist was really one of the prostitutes but she'd picked up a dose of something and so had been relegated to the desk. "And that means one hell of a drop in her income... so watch out - she's in a foul mood and will snap at you for almost any infraction."

"Just what I need tonight," muttered Carol as she tried to stifle a yawn.

At that point Mr Osbourne, accompanied by the Bishop that Carol recognised from the previous evening, walked through the entrancehall the Under Manager clearly escorting his client to the door. Spotting Carol, the older man's eyes lit up and he diverted towards her, Mr Osbourne following like a faithful puppy. "Ah, Carol, how nice to see you. Jane."

"And you too, Your Grace," Carol returned respectfully while Jane simply smiled and muttered a brief greeting.

"I'm glad that I bumped into you, Carol... most fortuitous really. Osbourne here tells me that, previous to starting here, you were employed by a cleaning firm. Is that correct?"

"Indeed it is, Your Grace."

"Hmmm... it's just that I have a small apartment that I keep her in town, my diocese being some distance away... and finding staff to tidy it is most difficult. Would you be willing to put in a few hours a week to help out an old man? I'd be willing to pay... say, fifteen pounds a hour?"

"That's well over the going rate, sir..."

"Yes," interjected Mr Osbourne, "that's true... but His Grace requires a certain... consideration from you in that he demands... unusual standards of dress from his personal staff."

"Unusual standards of dress? What do you mean by that?" asked a perplexed Carol.

"Yes... I like my cleaners to wear only wellington boots, Marigold gloves and a latex thong... all in bright yellow. You would be required to work dressed like that. There would, of course, be no sexual liaison between us... but I do like to look up from my paper work every so often and see a nice young girl fluttering about flouting her breasts and buttocks while doing the dusting and and other housekeeping duties."

"Well... I don't mind, Your Grace... and the extra money would be welcome... but... well, my work is here now..."

"That's all right," Mr Osbourne slipped in smoothly, "Where His Grace is concerned, we have no objections to helping out where we can. We do not mind you doing for him... in your own time, of course..."

"Well, I think that's settled," the clergyman said enthusiastically. "Here's the address and phone number, Carol, and I look forward to seeing you shortly. Actually... I don't suppose that you might be free for a few hours tomorrow afternoon or early evening, would you? My last cleaner left some time ago and the flat is looking a bit of a mess..."

Carol smiled and agreed that she could, indeed, manage that.

"Oh, thank you, my child. I'll make sure that there's a uniform available in your size from my... erm... stock. Now, Osbourne, I really must be going... got three sermons to write before Sunday..."

Once the Bishop had left, the brothel's Personal Manager turned towards Carol, his face darkening with anger. "Mr Ilyama's office, now!" he snapped before grabbing the startled girl's wrist and stalking away, dragging her behind him. Carol glanced hurridly at Jane, her eyebrows raised quizzically. The other maid could only shrug a noncommittal response at Carol before the maid was dragged off by the dark suited manager.

Carol was good and nervous by the time she was stood before the brothel owners desk for she'd figured out why she was there but she didn't say anything just in case she was wrong and dropped herself into more difficulties. The oriental finished off his paperwork, carefully placed the cap back onto his pen and finally looked up at Carol. "So... Miss Hargreaves. You have worked for me for less than a day and already I am called by the police about you. Why is this?"

Carol glanced down at the carpet just in front of her. "I'm sorry sir..." she began but Mr Ilyama's fist hitting his desk cut her off in mid appology and made her jump.

"I asked you a question. Stop snivelling and answer it."

"Er... yes... well, the police wanted to know where I had been last night between three in the morning and six. For part of the time I was here and so I told them that."

"Miss Hargreaves... I own a very discreet establishment here and my clientele do not wish to find the police crawling about due to some minor wrongdoings by one of the staff. Next time you will find someone else to provide you with an alibi or you will be finding yourself a new job. Is this clear?"

"Yes, sir."

"Excuse me, sir," cut in the Personnel Manager, "But I'd like to know what the police are investigating Miss Hargreaves for. I don't think we'd want to keep, say, a thief on our books anyway."

"Quite right, Osbourne-San. So? What crimes are you accused of?"

"Well... I'm not accused of anything... I'm just one of many people who could have done it. The police just wanted to eliminate me from the list they're drawing up."

The owner stood up from behind his desk, anger showing on his face again. "Murder," Carol went on quickly. "There's been two killings and it seems the police feel that I had a good reason to do at least one of them."

"But you didn't?" Osbourne asked.

"Of course not!" Carol replied indignantly. "But at least you won't have to pay Steve his finders fee..."

Osbourne looked at Carol, "You mean he was the victim?"

"Yes, sir, he was," Carol replied while the manager's face took on a thoughtful expression.

"Nevertheless," said Mr Ilyama, "you have been a naughty girl and you'll have to be punished - six of the best with my cane. Or would you rather resign here and now?"

Before Carol could begin to reply, Osbourne moved quickly forward and started to whisper into the ear of his oriental employer. A sly, thoughtful look crossed Mr Ilyama's face as he listened and nodded a few times, occasionally glancing over at an increasingly perplexed Carol. Osbourne pulled back and Mr Ilyama told him to go and find out... at which point the little manager left the room. The Japanese man moved closer to Carol and looked her in the eyes. "Osbourne-San has intervened on your behalf and has persuaded me to be merciful... so instead of caning you, you will spend the shift wearing the Cap of Shame."

Carol stifled a sudden urge to chortle. The Cap of Shame? What the hell was he talking about now?

Mr Ilyama moved to a cupboard and returned with a white dunce's hat, complete with a large letter 'D' printed on the front. He placed it on Carol's head and slipped the elastic strap under her chin. "You will wear this until you leave the building at the end of your shift. You will not remove it or allow another to do so. While wearing it you will, whenever you are not performing a task, find the nearest corner and stand in it. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir... I understand," said a relieved Carol. Taking this infantile punishment instead of being caned? This was great!

"Very well. You may return to your duties."

Laughing inside at the lightness of her escape, Carol almost skipped her way back to the foyer where she immediately moved towards Jane, a stupid grin plastered on her face. "Hey," she began, "they've made me wear this silly..." Carol's voice trailed away and her walk slowed to a halt. Jane had been smiling when Carol had entered the room but now she was frowning seriously and had turned her back to the dunce. "Jane?" Carol asked, moving a little closer to her friend. "Jane? What's wrong?"

"Keep away from me," snapped the other maid, making sure that her back was always turned towards Carol.

"And get yourself into the corner, dunce!" ordered the receptionist, her breats and chain wobbling with righteoius indignation. "And no peeking!" Puzzled and hurt by the seriousness that the others were taking this whole Cap of Shame thing, Carol slunk into a corner and stood there, hands clasped behind her back.

Sitting behind the only desk in his untidy office, Inspector Smythe was struggling to concentrate on the growing pile of paperwork demanding his attention. He was struggling because of several factors, one of which being that he seriously hated paperwork, being as he was more of a 'hands-on' type of copper. The second reason he was struggling so was the he was so very tired. The third reason was that his trousers and underpants were rumpled around his ankles so that Sergeant Adoga could more easily give him a blow job from her position crushed beneath his desk and hidden from view of anyone entering the office by the modesty board. As Fiona licked and sucked with her lips and tongue while fondling his balls with a hand, Ian Smythe couldn't help but compare the good looking, ever eager black woman with his frigid shrew of a wife back home for whom sex was a thing to be endured, once a week, with the curtains drawn and done as quickly as possible. Fiona, on the other hand, was always seeking fresh positions, new places... and she seemed to get a positive thrill from doing it in dangerous situations where there was always a chance they'd get caught. Getting close to the point of orgasm now, Ian put down his pen and griped both arms of his imitation leather chair, his eyes closed in anticipation...