Bedtime Confessions (The Chambermaid's Tales - Short Stories) (7 page)

My meeting with The Baron took place. I was desperate to tell someone about it afterward but Flo was away visiting family. A week later, however, she returned home and I began to tell her the tale as we sat up in my bed, with the night closing in around my secluded country cottage.

The Baron was known amongst the other dommes as the ‘one who wouldn't be quelled’. He was feared and revered, equally. He was one of those men who posed a challenge and a problem. Not an easy job therefore. You couldn't just turn up for an evening's work and see him on his way, not without an extraordinary match taking place. Perhaps I would prove to be more than his equal, and perhaps, this is why I had always declined to be one of his Mistresses. I did not like feeling on a par with anyone; it meant the potential for bonds being formed. I was a solitary she-devil, doing only what I needed to.

Yes, I was not sure what I was up against. But I was going to give it a go.

The name he had come to be known by was given – apparently – because he had some loose ties with aristocracy, though none that could be verified. I suppose everyone thought of him as a rather crude kind of gentleman who was not really the sort we usually dealt with, though he was of course moneyed.

I was warned first and foremost, this was a man who would need to receive real, untamed punishment. He needed it in abundance and of course, not all of the girls appreciate being made to cut and slice their slaves open, if they can help it. We all prefer to play the part and practise the art, but that is about it. My own lust for bloodshed is something I do not like to unleash unless it is required of me for a real purpose. This man was paying to simply get hurt, not learn any lessons from it.

This man needed real, unadulterated bloodthirstiness from me. Maybe that day, I was willing to give it to him. Perhaps I was just in the mood.

I gathered all the equipment I would need, including several different retractable spreaders, ropes, harnesses, pulleys and all manner of gadgetry that I may use to bend and splay him; contort and arouse him.

I planned to use every trick in the book. I knew he m
ay be my last or even penultimate client, whichever; I was aware of making them count ‒ those dwindling experiences. I was up for retirement.

I was given an address and told to meet him there. It was a large mansion up in the north of Nottinghamshire. The
house lay behind intimidating black gates and a security system that could rival the crib of any gangster rapper worth his gold. This place, as I saw through the slits of the barriers I came up against, was a mansion so well-kept. Not a hedgerow or a topiary bush, or a piece of gravel from the drive, was out of place. I don't know why… but it all raised the hairs on the back of my neck.

The place just bothered me. It looked dreary and cold, beneath the sparkling façade. There was nobody running around, except for the
put-upon gardeners and other servants dashing about to get their jobs done. No cars. Just a perfect house and a security system that seemed unwarranted.

I buzzed the gate and waited. I heard a quiet clunk and the gates slowly began sliding open. Nobody invited m
e in. I drove on and heard the metal smash shut behind me.

I didn't know where to park the A8. Maybe right at the front door? I didn't know! There were no other vehicles to pull up alongside. Like I said, aside from the hired help, the place seemed desolate. It seemed to hold some kind of atmosphere of loss. The building was large and had more than a dozen windows at the front, plus a number of smaller extensions at the back. It probably once housed a family or two, or three, but now it was bereft of life.

As I pulled to a halt at the side of a grass verge, just a few metres away from the front door, a butler walked up to me as I got out of the car. He was wearing the stuffiest uniform I had ever seen and I realised, he was in the dress of some Victorian servant! All starched collars and tails.

He beckoned in a monotone voice,
“Keys, Madam,” and I gave them to him, holding my hand out without thinking. He jumped in the car and drove away, taking my top-of-the-range machine to the back of the house, where I imagined a garage of some sort may reside.

Clearing away the unsightliness
, I thought.

My vehicle would have probably cast a dark shadow on what was otherwise a perfectly sculpture
d, manicured house kept but not inhabited. Strange.

I stood and looked at the property. Limestone, perhaps. Tall plate glass windows shined to perfection, glinting against the springtime sun. The front double door was a deep-red mahogany, all brass handles and a large lion-paw knocker.

I reached the front door and prepared to knock, taking a deep breath. This was certainly an imposing residence if ever there were one. Before I even tapped the knocker, however, the door opened inwards and an equally stuffy housemaid opened up.

Some time later, I found myself in a room made for purpose. All around me was dark wood and chandeliers, high ceilings, candelabra and gold mirrors. A four-poster bed that was already fitted with a harness and pulleys. The man, with dark hair and a handsome face, was spread-eagled over the bed. He wanted to be whipped fearsomely.

I used the riding crop first to warm him up. I hit, thrashed and slapped him with the weapon. He hissed and whined. Next I pulled out a flogger and it drew a bit of blood. I watched the skin of his back easily slice open, yet he continued to need the lash. He hungered for it, groaning right from the pits of his stomach. This man wasn't in the mood for any kind of sexual contact. He wanted punishing and as I hit him, I felt my stomach baulk at what I was carrying out. This was enjoyable for neither of us, not really. He was
asking for pain, not pleasure; for redemption, for something wild to be thrashed out of him. His howls echoed through the room and probably throughout the rest of the house. I felt sure the expressionless, emotionless looks those servants had given me were certainly evidence that they were versed in their Master's penchant for the dark arts. The flagellation of one's outer skin. This man needed immolation to the nth degree.

Some instinct of mine told me to get it over with and leave, but his demands were unrelenting. He asked me to clamp his foreskin and his nipples, before flowing electron pulses through his most sensitive parts. I honestly thought I was surplus to requirement. He could have given himself the treatment, or, he could have gotten a servant to do it just as easily. I was just there, receiving his demands for more pain, more fierceness. He eagerly forced my hand to execute delivery. Like I said, I really wasn't comfortable with it. But I just kept telling myself…
this will be over soon and that will be it. I shall be free of this work and free of this curse to love a man who doesn't love me.
I knew we had the flights booked and the Jamaican villa was waiting for us, but something, would not be quietened inside me. I felt like I was in the devil's den and could not escape. I wanted to leave that house and go somewhere to wash the filth of it off my skin. All of it… none of it… seemed right.

When I freed him of his shackles, and when he stood before me naked and scored with lesions of various degrees all over, he looked at me as though renewed. Though he had been broken open an
d thrashed, he seemed revived. He pulled himself up taller and he appeared to be refreshed rather than wrecked. I really had hurt him. But, he may have absorbed my strikes like Superman absorbs the sun. Rejuvenated.

“
Thank you,” he murmured. He seemed ever so indebted, panting breathlessly. Gazing at me gratefully.

The man stood naked and yet there was nothing sexual in it. It was purely about his need for nullificat
ion. It reminded me then of my lover's similar penchant for such skills as mine. On occasion, my former lover had asked for the same, and it had always seemed to thrill him a little more than I had liked.

The
gentleman walked toward me and for the first time that day, I caught his eyes from a close-up perspective.

I froze.

I took a breath.

I gulped.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end.

Green eyes.

Sludgy in the dark light.

Fanned with long lashes.

But lifeless.

These were soulless.

They resembled eyes I loved.

But they were devoid of any resemblance of the soul I loved that had these same eyes.

My lover's eyes.

I baulked. I tried to hold myself together.

“Will you help me wash the blood away?” he asked.

“
Of course.”

We retreated to the en suite and I marvelled at the marble and granite that was everywhere. There was literally only one thing that wasn't constructed from one of those materials and it was the ceiling, which was tiled with white porcelain. So extravagant! A haven worthy of
Neptune!

As the blood swilled down the plughole, I watched it swirl. It irked me. It disgusted me and I felt like hell itself had set up home down that hole in the shower cubicle. I stood and sponged his back down with some anti-bacterial wash and carried out the ceremonial aftercare of his penance, which I had taken in full payment. With every second that passed, I grew more anxious. But I was very aware of hiding who I was. I was very certain that I needed to maintain my composure.

Yes, this experience was making me more and more ready for retirement.

Perhaps after some spanking, he was ready to chat. He started opening up,
“I bet you wonder why a man like me lives here all alone, don't you? And why I need such treatment?”

“
I am paid to do what you say, that's it.” I really wanted to bolt and run. I was almost 100 per cent sure this was one of my lover's brothers.

“
I say, let's chat,” and he smiled almost innocently.

“
Okay,” I agreed, nodding slowly. My head was refusing to move.

“
I had a family, you know, but they left,” he said, so easily. Just telling a strange woman that! Quite normal for him it seemed!

“
Sorry to hear that,” I said, though I did not really care. I went on to tell him, “A lot of my clients had wives or girlfriends. They decided it wasn't for them. They like to pay for their activities and it makes life simpler.”

“
Indeed, exactly. I am so glad you understand,” and he smiled openly.

“
Not my job to judge,” I said.

“
You know, maybe you can help me…” and he smiled enquiringly. I nodded in return before he commenced, “I hear there's a woman known as the Chambermaid, who services a lot of my friends. But none of them will give me her details. She is apparently the best. Do you know of her, by any chance?”

He smiled sweetly but malice lay behind those eye
s. They were nothing like His. They betrayed the opposite of my lover's soul. The other side of the coin.

“
I hear she is a shy one,” I told him, smiling a little as I sponged the welts on his thighs.

“
I would really like to meet her. Are you sure you don't know her? Or know of anyone who might know her?”

“
No, I am really clueless,” I insisted.

I gulped the bile down. I was terrified by that point and working on adrenalin.

None at the agency knew I was the Chambermaid. They only knew I was good at what I did. They only knew me as Lottie, and, that is all they called me by. The Chambermaid was a myth, a legend, a character that swept in and out of hotel rooms. That was all.

“
She seems like she knows her stuff,” I said tentatively, breathing slowly to control my racing pulse. “She seems secretive,” I offered, eyeing him momentarily. I didn't want him to think I was afraid of him. But I was, I really was.

“
She learnt all she knew at the Lodge, apparently. My father was the main figure running it, when he was alive,” he said.

“
Oh, I am sorry, did he die?” I offered apologetically, when really I was scared out of my wits. The Baron looked kind of grave and I guessed his father had died recently.

“
He died, yes. About six weeks ago now,” he said, in his silken, calm tone of voice. He was anything but calming me, however.

“
I have never been to the Lodge,” I say, feigning ignorance, “though I have heard of it.”

I thanked my lucky stars that I listened to one of the girls who told me The Baron liked blondes. I had donned a wig that morning, so I resemb
led Marilyn Monroe. It was my wont to sometimes go in disguise. It made it easier to play the part. It was a pretty good rug too and he hadn't yet glanced at my hair as if to question whether it were fake. I felt sure he did not recognise me.

“
Well, if you do know anything about her and you change your mind, then, let me know. There would be a large reward in it for you.”

“
You are really desperate to find her, aren't you?” I asked.