Chapter 2B: The Way Things REALLY Were...

Jason, Armand Wilson's majordomo, found his employer in his library, sipping brandy. "Witherspoon informs me that there has been significant sexual activity among the distaff," he intoned.

"Young Mister Adams?" Armand guessed.

Jason displayed his teeth in what passed for a smile. "Indeed. But before that, your ex-wife put on an impressive display of obedience to your directive to please herself with the toys."

Armand chuckled, "Didn't she do that last night?"

Jason nodded. "Yes, and of course we have decent infrared video. But today she apparently adjusted the curtains to ensure visibility from our observation post and then put on quite a show!"

Armand laughed. "Sharon is a source of continual amusement! No doubt she wishes to be spared any gang-bang scenes -- although I KNOW that she would break down and enjoy it! If she only knew that we have the interior of the house covered in depth..." Another chuckle escaped him. "I assume that the raw catch is on the way?"

"Yes, Sir."

"I'll see it when it arrives." Armand waved dismissal, already thinking about what he would do for diversion while watching. Perhaps Felicia... "Oh, Jason," he murmured, prompting the majordomo to turn and face him, "Have you and Charles made up?"

Jason showed his teeth. Over the weekend, Felicia -- now known as 'the Wench' -- had occasioned a certain loss of face for Jason, and Armand had enforced it by elevating Charles, the head groundskeeper, to Overseer of his as yet tiny stable of actual slaves. Jason was still unhappy with having to share his domain with the interloper, but he figured that Charles would fail to please Armand at some point in the near future and all would return to normal. In the meantime, Charles had made shift to heal the breach by allowing Jason to vent his irritation upon the hapless Wench, and he had spent several hours making her life truly miserable despite having Charles looking on as chaperone. He'd engendered abject fear in the young redhead, and for now, that would do. "Yes, Sir."

"Good. Have the Wench deliver the take when it arrives."

"Yes, Sir." Jason dipped his head and stalked out.

Ninety minutes later, while Armand was going over production figures for the Midwestern states, the Wench arrived carrying a couple of DVDs and a few sheets of hardcopy. The statuesque redhead entered and knelt, nude, beside Armand's chair, presenting the documents. Until very recently, the Wench had gone by the name Felicia, and had been pursuing a promising career in modeling -- but about a month previously, she had drifted into Armand's orbit and become a toy. Armand had submitted her to a gentle course of the usual indignities, expecting more or less the usual rate of descent into depravity, but Felicia had surprised him by breaking almost immediately, becoming pliant to the point of overriding her instinct for self- preservation. Armand had subjected her to a whole catalog of tortures and humiliations, but Felicia merely absorbed the abuse and presented herself for more. Many masters would have been thrilled to death to obtain a slave of such pliancy, but Armand enjoyed observing the struggle, both physical and mental, of victims under his control. Felicia didn't struggle, either physically or mentally; she merely endured, and made shift to enjoy her mistreatment. Armand's first impulse had been to put her back on the street with his other ruined playthings, but it became clear that Felicia was altered to the point of being unable to operate properly in a 'normal' environment; she had needs and hungers the slaking of which would have no 'safe' venues in the outside world. So Armand had accepted her total submission and assigned Charles as overseer; she was the 'house slave', her station beneath even the young kids who maintained the grounds of Armand's estate. Her primary job function was to act as a vessel for the sexual energies of anyone Armand designated, whether it be himself, houseguests, servants... Charles' job was to see to it that she was sexed regularly, and that she considered no perversion unusual. The pair had only been in their new jobs for a couple of days; Jason didn't think Charles would measure up, but then Jason was unaware of the little incident that had brought Charles into Armand's uncle's and subsequently Armand's employ...

Armand let her stew a bit; it was good for her to learn patience, he reasoned. From appearances, the effort was wasted; the wench knelt there as if she had all the time in the world to act as furniture for her Master. After a few minutes, though, her arms began to shake from holding them in a raised position for so long. Armand let this continue for another minute or so, then blandly collected the materials. After having read the hardcopy, Armand announced, "We're going to the media room," rose, and stalked out, the Wench following at two paces. Once in the media room, he handed the DVDs back to the Wench, directing, "Mount these in the DVD changer, this one first, and start it."

The Wench executed her instructions and returned to kneel beside Armand's recliner, remote presented. Armand reflected that there WERE things to be said for perfect service... The next twenty minutes were occupied by Armand's perusal of his ex-wife's VERY visible interlude with the vibrator. Yes, she knew him; her intent was clear: it was a show of obedience to stave off his threat of escalation. Armand was somewhat surprised that she allowed herself enjoyment of the exercise -- but then control, ultimately, was not one of Sharon's strong points. More amusing than watching her responses while in the throes of orgasm (he was as familiar with Sharon's response pattern as Witherspoon's operative was not) was her fastidious recovery; it was an exercise in denial of the type that never ceased to bring forth a chuckle.

"Switch DVDs," he directed, and the Wench did so, after some fumbling with the remote. Armand settled back to watch the antics of his daughter and her rangy black lover. After a bit, he stood, and ordered, "Have someone bring my robe and pajamas."

The Wench punched the intercom button on a nearby console. "My Master wishes to have his pajamas and robe brought to the Media Room."

A waspish male voice issued from the speaker, "So why don't you go get them, Slut?"

The Wench glanced up at Armand, who frowned and shook his head. The Wench spent a moment visibly composing her response before replying, "That is not my Master's intent."

"Oh," came the short response. "Very well." There was a bit more before the intercom cut off, the word 'lazy' being the only one clearly discernable.

"That was Raoul, wasn't it?" Armand asked mildly.

"I believe so, Master," Wench answered carefully. She knew that tone.

Armand pointed at the receiver for the house phone and snapped his fingers; Wench leaped to retrieve it. "Jason, we have a disciplinary problem," Armand announced.

"Sir." There was a click -- Jason was on his way. In a moment, Consuela arrived with Armand's clothing. The Wench collected it while Armand queried, "Raoul sent you?" A nod. "Get him." Consuela got out of there.

Armand signed for the video to be put on hold while this other matter was dealt with; the Wench handled it, juggling clothing and the remote.

Jason arrived next, followed quickly by Raoul, for whom one look at the occupants of the room signaled trouble. "Raoul," Armand murmured, "You are correct that the Wench occupies a position of low estate in this house. However, if she is responding to my directions, she represents ME, does she not?"

"Uhhh, yes, Sir, sorry, Sir," Raoul placated nervously, his eyes flicking back and forth between Armand and Jason.

"The Wench was very clear in relating her instructions, and again very clear in transmitting the fact that it was my will that she remain here," Armand continued inexorably, "yet you insisted upon assuming that she was merely being lazy. Why?"

"I, uh," Raoul really had no answer; he'd been watching television, and had reacted more or less instinctively at the interruption. "I, uh was being less than attentive, Sir."

Armand's eyes flicked to Jason. "See to it that Charles is informed that Raoul is to have no use of the Wench, either sexually or as a menial." Raoul blanched a bit; this lowered him somewhat in the staff pecking order. "How old is your daughter?" Armand continued, "Fourteen?" Raoul knew fear; his whole family was quartered below stairs. This was the first time he'd realized that this was a bad thing, that they were hostages to his good behavior. "It's time she learned a bit about reality," Armand announced. "For the next week, she will see to the Wench's needs; feed her, clean her kennel, and such. Yes, that's an idea." He flicked a glance at Jason, who nodded. It would be done. Raoul's family knew their place; his wife, in fact, had been well able to read the writing on the wall without troubling Raoul with any announcement of the fact. In fact, she'd offered physical acknowledgement of Jason's power over her household on a number of occasions... Jason stood there, reflecting that next time he fucked her, maybe he would allow Raoul to detect the fact... He showed his teeth in his characteristic blank grin and Raoul wondered what ELSE he would heap upon the Master's punishment.

Armand wasn't quite through yet, though. "She'll have to be available twenty-four by seven, of course," he mused.

Raoul swallowed, but gathered his courage. "She's in school, Sir..."

Armand dealt with this equably. "Quite right, mustn't interrupt THAT. When she's not in school, then. Day and night; school is her only excuse. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir." Raoul hung his head and Armand waved dismissal. Before Raoul hit the door, though, Armand added, "She starts tomorrow at, say, six a.m.?" He glanced at the Wench, who nodded. "She can check to see that the Wench hasn't fouled her cage." Raoul nodded acquiescence and got out of there before things got any worse. Jason dipped his head and followed Raoul out; Armand knew from experience that Jason would add icing to the cake in some manner.

Turning to the Wench, Armand announced, "You may undress me." He didn't do this often; it had been a spur of the moment thing brought on by mild arousal -- and, frankly, Raoul had ruined it. But the Wench had his change of clothing, so it was politic to follow through... The Wench stepped up and began sliding him out of his jacket. She didn't realize it, but she was smiling; this was a good thing -- it might lead to sex, and maybe even a chance to sleep in a bed (her kennel was a hard, unpleasant place, made so deliberately as an incentive to provide good service). Armand looked on, amused, as the Wench divested him of several layers of clothing and installed him in his pajamas and robe, helping her only minimally. The Wench's obvious happiness at such menial activity brought a return to joviality; Armand settled in his chair and ordered, "Send for refreshments -- iced tea and some fruit, I think. And restart the DVD." The Wench leaped to obey. This time, there were no screw-ups; Consuela found the Wench kneeling between Armand's legs having her breasts fondled absently while the pair watched some interracial content on TV when she delivered the drinks ten minutes later.

That 'interracial content' was Nora and Nate making like bunnies, of course. Armand watched the proceedings with a curious mix of detachment and arousal; he had no sexual interest in Nora, but fucking WAS fucking, and the pair was doing a fine job. Armand grasped the Wench's chin, turning her head, and she got the hint immediately, reorienting and engulfing his member. The Wench might not fulfill his urge for strife, but she had the mechanics down pat. And she appeared to enjoy her work, going deep every few strokes without prompting. Armand let her deal with it on her own, and returned his attention to the video. Yes, obviously Nora had her mother's wild response pattern -- but without her hang-ups, apparently. Armand had sometimes wondered if Sharon came so hard BECAUSE she was otherwise so rigidly controlled, or it was purely her natural state; the jury was still out, but Nora was definitely a slut, once aroused. On the other hand, the Adams boy had a decent-sized erection and the will to use it -- and he WASN'T treating Nora like a tramp. No, Armand's genes were apparent here -- Nora had the black boy wrapped around her little finger, and controlled him virtually without thought -- smoothly, too; the boy seldom realized he was being manipulated. That he was smitten was obvious; time would tell whether it was love or merely the miraculous fulfillment of his every sexual need.

Armand began to feel some urgency, which was surprising -- he didn't expect to get much out of a blowjob given by a woman who obviously wasn't feeling anything much in the way of humiliation. Perhaps he should have choke-fucked Raoul for his temerity... The thought added to Armand's arousal, but he dismissed it -- it would have left Jason with fewer options when HE heaped his own punishment atop Armand's. Besides, Jason liked doing men a lot more than Armand did... Things got really good, and Armand sat up to take a hand, capturing the back of the Wench's head and driving her to repeated deep strokes. The orgasm arrived, and Armand spiked the hapless redhead, pouring spunk down her choking throat and taking additional pleasure from its spastic movements.

Immediately after her release, the Wench vomited, spewing on the floor. She looked up, sniffling, "I'm sorry, Master! I tried to hold it down..." The woman never ceased to amaze Armand; the expected reaction would have been something on the order of "Why did you do that? See what you made me do?" Of course, Armand would have punished THAT severely...

After a moment's thought, Armand returned, "Practice makes perfect. Throw a towel over it; your new assistant can clean it up in the morning. Tell Charles I said to have the yard boys use your throat until you develop control."

"Yes, Master."

The Wench rose to collect a towel from an adjoining bathroom, and Armand added, "Hurry back and kneel up; I want to soak a while." The Wench left the room at a dead run, and was back in no time, covering the slimy mix of saliva and semen (which didn't smell much, thank God), and kneeling up to accept Armand's still solid member, doggy-style. For the moment, Armand merely made insertion and soaked his cock in the hot oil bath that was Wench's pussy; time for more, later, if he felt like it. Wench tried to up the ante by rhythmically clenching her vagina -- anything to make Master happy. She'd fully expected to have to clean her vomit from the floor with her tongue.