His Mistress’s Voice (13 page)

Harriet stirred on the settee, rattling her cup and spoon. Tom heard and asked, ‘More coffee, Mistress?’ The ritual words of submission still seemed strange to him. Unfamiliar. They stuck in his throat. Tom got to his feet and waited for her next move.

She noticed his hesitation and smiled encouragingly at him. ‘Don’t feel too awkward, it’s early days yet. You’ll learn how to behave as you go along. Think of the movies you’ve seen with servants in them, then try to behave as they did. I’ll help with advice from time to time.’

Tom wondered again how often her advice might consist of an application of the riding crop.

Harriet continued, ‘I don’t expect you to learn everything at once – though it might be nice if you could. In time you’ll learn to anticipate my wishes as a good servant should.’ She went off on a tangent: ‘It’s so hard to get good servants nowadays. They want respect, and days off, and exorbitant salaries and fringe benefits. It all comes of this madness for democracy and equal rights. Trade unions are largely to blame for it, giving workers the idea that they can set the rules instead of following orders. It wasn’t that way a hundred years ago,’ she mused, sounding as if she had wide personal experience with Victorian master – servant relations.

Tom wondered if her idea of proper relations with workers extended to lowering urchins into chimneys to sweep them. He reflected that even she might have some trouble finding an urchin nowadays. Children seemingly went directly from squalling infants demanding constant attention to shouting yobs requiring constant guarding.

Harriet once more cut across his thoughts. ‘More coffee, please,’ she said, holding out her empty cup.

Tom poured for her and added cream and sugar, earning another nod of approval. She didn’t offer him any. Doubtless her idea of proper mistress–servant relations. Servants eat in their own place, not with the mistress of the house. Feed them enough so that they can perform their duties adequately but show no sign of familiarity. Tom assumed that the lecture was over and returned to cleaning the white crusty patches from the carpet near her feet. As he worked he stole glances at her legs. Harriet had crossed them in a seemingly careless fashion allowing him to peer up to her crotch. She wasn’t wearing pants. Tom didn’t think she had forgotten them or that she was unaware of the display she was creating. Even in his short experience with her Tom had come to believe that Harriet rarely did things unwittingly. She appeared much too organised. Almost everything she did had a purpose, like a good teacher teaching by demonstration when she wasn’t lecturing. Tom appreciated her legs while he worked.

‘I wonder if it would help to have a uniform for you.’ Harriet spoke as if there had been no pause after her last remarks. ‘I was thinking of letting you do a little TV. A French maid’s uniform for you might do the trick. You can hire them from the fancy-dress people. Would you like to dress as my maid next time?’ Harriet’s tone made the question into a statement.

Tom was startled. That idea had never occurred to him. He knew there were clubs for transvestites in the same way there were gay clubs and even sado-masochistic clubs and groups, but he had never imagined himself wearing women’s clothing. It looked as if he had better get used to the idea of doing things he had never thought of as long as he remained with Harriet.

‘I might even have you go in and hire the outfit. Would you like that? Then you could shop for underwear and tights for yourself as dessert. Have you ever bought women’s lingerie? You must have done. All men like to make their girlfriends presents of what they think the girl of their fantasies should wear. They, the men I mean, rarely stop to think if it is indeed what the woman wants to wear. It’s always black stockings and suspenders and a black bra. No other colour will do. Don’t men have any imagination? No, I suppose not. Can’t be helped. It must be your early upbringing and toilet training. Men can be so square and predictable. I like red occasionally. Even a nice light green is a pleasant change, though for important occasions I think there’s nothing like a polished steel and brass chastity belt to really turn their heads. On me, I mean,’ Harriet added. ‘Not that I’m all that hooked on chastity itself. But I
do
like the trappings now and then. And the implied contrast. Something that makes men wild to tear it off you is my idea of a successful outfit. And something they can’t tear off you makes them wilder still. Would you like me to drive you wild with unfulfilled desire, Tom?’

‘I thought you did rather a nice job of that last night,’ he replied when she paused. He saw that Harriet was pleased with the compliment. He was also pleased with the calmness he managed to put into his remark even while his mind was busy with the implications of what she had been saying. Harriet had a knack of making remarks calculated to startle or keep him in suspense. Willy-nilly he had been going over the idea of wearing women’s clothing. The idea of having smooth nylon covering his own legs and body was disturbingly vivid and, he admitted to himself, pleasant and arousing.

Tom didn’t believe he would be particularly good at dressing and looking like a maid. The closet transvestites and those who did it only occasionally rarely managed to look as female as the public TVs who practised their craft almost daily and who had received professional help with hair, make-up and fashion. And Tom had no desire to be seen in public as they did. Still, the idea, now that Harriet had planted it, began to grow and seem more attractive. It seemed of a piece with the submissive role she was teaching him. He would submit to her choice of clothing and the role of a woman. He knew that, like most transvestites, he was firmly heterosexual but the idea of looking female still appealed to him. If Harriet had been trying to teach him that the male should be submissive and the female dominant, she would not have suggested he wear the clothes of the dominant sex. He imagined that she was telling him that
this
man was submissive and that
this
woman was giving the orders. A local phenomenon rather than a general statement of policy.

‘That’s something to think about while you wait for next Friday,’ Harriet said, interrupting his train of thought again. ‘I’ll let you know what I decide in the next week or so. It’ll be fun for you to wait for my word. Half the fun’s in the suspense, don’t you think?’

Her question didn’t seem to call for a response, so Tom made none. Silently he finished cleaning and took her coffee cup into the kitchen, where he began to prepare a breakfast of scrambled eggs, bacon and toast for his Mistress. The word sounded more natural to him now. As he worked he thought about Harriet’s proposal with more equanimity and a certain eagerness. It would be another new adventure for him.

He served Harriet and ate his own breakfast at the kitchen table. There was the rest of the Saturday stretching before him, and he wondered what Harriet had in mind for that day. Last night would be a hard act to follow, but she would have to do something. Usually there wasn’t much to do at the weekend except go to the pub or join the divorced parents visiting the zoo with their children. Neither idea seemed appealing. Harriet didn’t look like the zoo type anyway. But the decision was hers. Tom was glad he didn’t have to think up something to entertain her. That was the nice part about his situation. He didn’t have to make executive plans or decisions.

Which was just as well, as after breakfast Harriet announced that he wouldn’t be needed any more that weekend and he could go home. She got his clothes from wherever she had put them and handed them back. From her manner Tom gathered she had other things to do. He felt a momentary stab of jealousy when he imagined Harriet with someone else, even though he wasn’t sure she was going to see anyone else. Nor did he know what business she might have with whomever she did see. But he at least knew better than to ask. For one thing, she didn’t seem to want to discuss her business, and he didn’t want to lose face by asking questions.

As she handed his clothes to him, Harriet said, ‘Get out of here and earn your living,’ with mock severity. ‘Go home, get some sleep. Come back next Friday after work. Don’t bring anything. And don’t call me. Just show up on time.’

This sounded like the deliberate fencing off of the weekends with him from the rest of her life that Beth had enforced. He felt resentful and excluded, just as he had with Beth. Dismissed, he got dressed and took a cab home. He found the weekend very long indeed. He contrasted the empty days with the erotic play of the last twenty-odd hours at Harriet’s place. The only encouraging sign was Harriet’s demand that he come back next weekend. At least he was not being banished forever. On Sunday night he dreamed once more of Harriet as she had looked in her black leather outfit. She was offering herself to him and he could feel the tight smooth fabric as he undressed her. She was panting with the need for him. ‘Fuck me, Tom, please! Now! I can’t stand it. Do me!’

Chapter Five

The alarm clock woke him, and it was Monday. It was like every other Monday when he woke up to the workaday world after a weekend with Beth. She would occupy his dreams, and then he had to endure the routine of his job until he could see her again. It looked like being the same with Harriet. The main difference between them was that Harriet gave definite orders whereas Beth had led or suggested. Tom had the feeling that with Harriet he had given the control of his life over to someone else. He knew he had to see her again. There was no question of not turning up next time. Besides, there was the promise of becoming her assistant. Tom wondered if this included becoming her live-in lover. That was certainly implied. Or was it? Hard to tell with Harriet. Well. Wait and hope.

As he showered and dressed Tom thought about assisting Harriet in her business. Almost certainly that would involve plenty of B&D. Would he have access to and control over other women in his role as her assistant? Would he be expected to bind them? Lash or torture them? Abduct unwilling women? He found the possibilities incredibly exciting. Fantasies like these had certainly never presented themselves so strongly to him before. He would have been seriously disturbed by these ideas before Beth and Harriet had shown him the way. Or he felt he should be disturbed, but was turned on instead. And what about men? He found that idea off-putting, tinged as it was with the unease he usually felt about homosexual dealings. That idea broke the spell and dropped him back into the Monday morning routine.

The next week at work went as slowly as the earlier ones had gone when he was with Beth. He received the note from Harriet to attend her that Friday, which happened to be a holiday, so it would be a long weekend. He was commanded to bring nothing but himself.

On the appointed day he knocked at her door. She let him in and told him to take his clothes off. As before, she took them away to be locked up and he didn’t ask where she put them. It was not the sort of question she would like. By now he was getting used to her lack of ceremony. She had just got up and was wearing her dressing gown, which was promising, Tom thought. But she had still not decided to sleep with him. As he went into the kitchen to do her bidding, she went upstairs again. She didn’t say anything about the plans for the day.

By now Tom knew were things were kept, and so it didn’t take long for him to make a pot of coffee. As he was arranging the coffee things on a tray, he heard Harriet coming back down. When she came into the kitchen, he saw that she was wearing the same outfit she had worn on his previous visit. What she called her uniform.

‘Like what you see?’ she asked, twirling round for effect. ‘Yes, I can see that you do,’ she continued without waiting for his reply. ‘It sticks out all over you.’

Tom looked down at his stiff cock when she called attention to it. He saw her point.

Harriet went through into the front room, beckoning for him to follow with the tray. She sat on the settee and Tom placed the tray on the coffee table in front of her. She poured a cup for herself. Tom felt as if he should have done that for her and he hurried to make amends by offering cream and sugar.

‘Ah, good. You did that just right,’ she said as she tasted the coffee.

Harriet settled herself more comfortably, crossing her legs. Tom thrilled once more to the hiss of nylon on nylon. He never got tired of the sound, he reflected. He remained standing. It seemed the natural thing to do: if Harriet wanted him to sit down, she would tell him. He watched as she sipped her coffee with every sign of enjoyment. When she had finished half of it, she seemed to notice him standing there for the first time.

Harriet turned to him and said, ‘Could you just go to the closet under the stairs and fetch the chains you’ll find there. The ones you wore last time.’

Tom felt his stomach lurch with excitement as he remembered the last time he had worn the chains. Silently he moved to do her bidding. He thought about that phrase. Not so very long ago he wouldn’t have chosen that expression. Bidding wasn’t a word he used often, but now it seemed quite natural to him in these circumstances. The handcuffs and leg-irons hung on a hook just inside the door. He took them down and returned to the front room. Harriet set the cup down as he entered. He saw it was empty and asked, ‘Would you like another?’ He almost added ‘Mistress’ but hesitated at the last moment. That word wasn’t natural to him yet.

Harriet noticed the omission and looked quickly at him. ‘Manners. Did you forget so soon? You really should be more careful, or Mama spank next time. I just don’t feel like doing it now, so we’ll put this one on the account and settle it later. But please don’t go on that way.’

He felt his stomach lurch again in anticipation. The ‘please’ had the emphasis of the ‘if you please’ that followed military orders when the officer was trying to appear calm and polite.

‘Pour me another cup and then go sit down over there,’ she said, indicating the armchair across from her. ‘Put the leg-irons on your ankles for me.’ She didn’t add, ‘There’s a good boy,’ but she might as well have done.