His Mistress’s Voice (23 page)

Harriet lowered her voice and added, ‘When you can disentangle yourself, lock her in here and come upstairs.’

She left the room and Tom could hear her footsteps receding up the stairs. Harriet had set no time limit on the disentangling process, but he knew enough of her by now to realise that she didn’t mean hours later. There was no way to predict how long Katrina might sleep, and he didn’t want Harriet to get impatient. There were other reasons urging prompt compliance as well. He had to go to the toilet rather urgently, as he frequently had to do after sex. And there was the matter of the French maid’s uniform waiting for him upstairs, about which he felt a strange mixture of curiosity and nervous anticipation. He shifted slightly and began to ease himself from beneath the fragrant weight of the Dutch girl who had almost literally dropped from the heavens into his life. Katrina sighed but slept on.

Tom let himself out carefully and locked the door behind him. He hoped the sleeping woman would understand the reason for his unceremonious exit. A few days with Harriet would teach her the rules of the house she found herself in. Harriet was waiting for him upstairs. She was still wearing her street clothes, which Tom found disappointing. He had imagined her striding around in her leather dominatrix outfit. Whenever he thought of his new mistress he imagined her in the outfit which was one of his favourites. He liked the way it defined and outlined her body. Indeed much of his own excitement about the French maid’s uniform was based on the idea of wearing such a form-fitting garment himself, even if only as underwear. And Harriet was certain to have other and more interesting ideas in mind.

Tom had taken his clothing from Katrina’s cell but had not bothered to put it on. He knew Harriet wouldn’t be offended by nudity so long as it was him without clothes. He reflected that he had never seen her in the nude. Nearly nude, in her dominatrix outfit, but still covered where society said it mattered. Of course her outfit was more provocative, to Tom at least, than total nudity would have been. A fact as well known to designers of lingerie as to novice B&D assistants.

Characteristically, it was Harriet who got in the first word:

‘How is she doing?’

‘All right,’ Tom replied. He hoped his face didn’t betray too much satisfaction over what he considered a job well done. He remembered Harriet’s angry reaction to his remark about Helen. ‘Why is she here?’ He realised it was a daring question even as he asked it. Indeed, almost any question could be daring around this house, but he hoped his audacity would distract Harriet and allow him to conceal his own feelings. In any case, she might well ignore the question.

Surprisingly, Harriet answered. ‘She’s gone off sex, Ari says. Ever since the baby she’s been avoiding it, saying it’s too soon, that she’d like to recover. He thought a visit to my place might change her mind.’

Privately, Tom thought that Katrina might have gone off Ari, because she gave no sign of avoiding sex. But it might not be wise to say that just now. Instead, he asked, ‘What do you intend to do about the problem?’

‘Expose her to you, just as I’ve already done. Tell me how she reacted.’

That sounded like an order to Tom. Harriet’s orders brooked no evasion. So he recounted for her the interlude with the blonde Dutch girl. Harriet showed keen interest in Katrina’s reaction to the manipulation of her breasts. ‘What did the milk taste like?’ she asked.

Tom paused to gather his thoughts. At the time, he hadn’t been particularly interested in the taste. ‘Well, a bit like warm evaporated milk, only sweeter,’ was his reply. He wondered if Harriet really didn’t know what mother’s milk tasted like. Or were there subtle variations in flavour he wasn’t aware of? Now that he thought of it, he didn’t know of anyone else who had discussed the matter. Perhaps Harriet was really in the dark, though it was difficult to imagine her admitting ignorance about anything. ‘And it was thinner. Thinner than the stuff in tins. More runny. Not bad, though,’ he added.

The answer seemed to satisfy Harriet. She nodded and changed the subject abruptly, as was her wont. ‘So you’d say she was going to respond?’

Tom nodded wordlessly.

Harriet sighed. ‘It looks as if the problem is Ari, not Katrina. I was afraid that was the case, but he’s not going to admit it readily. Just like a man – always thinks it’s the woman’s fault. I can see why the feminists sometimes lose patience with the male of the species. He’s the one who should be here,’ Harriet added darkly.

Tom wondered what she would do with him if he were here. His own experience with Harriet suggested that she would certainly try to change Ari’s point of view, much as she was doing with him. Would she try to train Ari with the carrot or the stick? If the former, would she play the part of the vegetable, something she had so far not done with him? Tom reflected that he had known Harriet for a fair time, but so far he hadn’t got between her legs with anything but his mouth. And even that had been on her own terms. He felt a momentary flash of envy for Ari.

But Harriet gave him no time to brood. She turned to the package Tom had brought. ‘Let’s see what you’ve brought for the evening’s fancy-dress party,’ she said brightly as she dumped the corselet and tights out of the bag. ‘Black,’ she sighed exaggeratedly. ‘Men are so predictable. Still, the colour will go with the rest of the outfit. Go have a wash and we’ll get started.’

Tom went into the bathroom to shower off the traces of his session with Katrina. As he washed he felt his heart thudding against his ribcage with a sudden excitement. He hadn’t realised just how eagerly he had been looking forward to this. Beth had never suggested anything so bizarre, even though she had been aware of his interest in female underclothes. She had dressed to please him on every possible occasion. Now he was going to get into the same sort of clothing which excited him so much when women wore it.

Harriet was waiting for him in the living room. She handed him the corselet and a pair of tights. ‘Get on with it, then,’ she said.

With fingers that shook slightly he peeled the cellophane wrapping from a pair of tights.

Harriet noticed the barely suppressed excitement but said only, ‘Go on then.’ She smiled slightly to encourage him when he looked up.

Tom sat on the settee and began to put the tights on. Harriet watched critically as he got his feet into them and began to pull them up his legs. The smooth nylon felt cool on his skin. When he stood up to tug the top part of the tights into place, Harriet moved closer and helped him with the unfamiliar task. When the panty part was in place she reached into the front of the tights to move his cock and balls so that they lay against his lower stomach and not between his legs.

‘They’ll be less pinched that way,’ she explained. ‘And handier,’ she added. She handed him the black corselet with a sign that he was to put it on. When he had got the garment up as far as the waist she once more stepped in to help with the final fitting. She pulled it up until the gusset was tight against his scrotum, smoothing out the wrinkles and pulling the shoulder straps into place for him.

‘Thanks,’ he said briefly. ‘I don’t think I could have managed it on my own.’ Was there the slightest tremor in his voice? He didn’t trust himself to speak further just then. He was excited by the constriction of his legs and torso. Wordlessly he accepted the two contoured-foam rubber pads from her hand and fitted them into the brassière part of the corselet.

‘Instant tits,’ Harriet observed. ‘Don’t want to make them too big or the rest of us girls will get jealous.’ She indicated a smooth black slip lying on top of the maid’s dress. When he had put that on she helped him into the dress itself. It consisted of a short black skirt with a short-sleeved top. There was a long zipper up the back of the outfit. ‘Step into the skirt first,’ Harriet instructed. When he had done so she smoothed down the skirt and then helped him get his arms into the sleeves. Then she zipped him up. ‘I didn’t think you’d be able to manage a back zipper just yet. It takes even us real girls some time to get the knack. But you’ll learn with practice.’

There was a frilly white apron which Harriet tied around his waist. She handed him the long brown wig next, adding a white lacy cap as a final touch. ‘Next time I’ll give you some tips on make-up, but you’ll do for now,’ she pronounced.

Tom felt his heart lurch with excitement at the mention of the make-up and the next time. Evidently there was more to come. He moved over to the mirror so that he could see himself as Harriet saw him. The familiar face stared back from a figure that was far from familiar. There was a definite pinching-in of the waist which gave him more pronounced hips. Not exactly the hourglass effect so admired in women of the last century, but definitely more hip than he normally had. And the tight garments made themselves felt all over his body. He felt himself getting hard inside the corselet.

Harriet came to look also. ‘Don’t stand too long in front of the mirror. Remember Narcissus.’ She handed him a pair of black high-heeled shoes. ‘Put these on and do a practice walk. It isn’t as easy as we women make it look. It’s another of the awkward things we do to please men,’ she finished in a much-put-upon tone of voice.

Tom stepped into the shoes and fastened the ankle straps. He took a few tentative steps. It
wasn’t
as easy as it looked. He had a sudden new appreciation of walking. He had to be careful not to trip and to remember that his heels would be touching the floor a lot more quickly, and he had to balance more than he was accustomed to. As he passed the mirror he caught another glimpse of himself. His calf muscles were much more prominent, the effect of wearing the shoes. He understood now how women produced the effect he admired so much, and which was described by the phrase, a well-turned leg.

‘When you can walk again – and if you can stop admiring yourself – you can go get something for us all to eat. That’s what maids are for, you know.’ Harriet’s words broke the mood like a shower of icy water. ‘And put these on before you start.’ She held out his leg-irons. ‘Be careful not to ladder your tights with them.’

Tom took the chains and locked them around his ankles. Harriet knelt to double-lock them and then made a dismissive motion with her hand. He went to prepare coffee and sandwiches, reminding himself not to trip and spill anything onto the outfit which he was beginning to think of as his. As he worked he wondered how many other men Harriet treated this way. It was one of the questions he wanted to ask, but he didn’t really want to know the answer. In her line of business Harriet doubtless did this many times. He had caught sight of several other outfits in the cupboards downstairs.

This maid’s outfit looked and smelled new, as if she had recently purchased it for him. The unworn soles of the shoes told much the same story, as did the tightness common to all new shoes. She must have put some thought into this latest game. He was pleased by that. And by the way his erection rubbed against the smooth tight material of the corselet and tights. He pressed his stomach against the counter top as he prepared the sandwiches, making himself more excited by the moment. Careful, he warned himself. Don’t want to spill anything on the outside or the inside of the uniform just now.

‘Enjoying yourself in there?’ Harriet called out, as if she had guesed what he was doing. ‘Hurry up. People are starving all around the world – not to mention right out here.’ To his consternation he could hear Harriet speaking to someone else. It could only be Katrina, unless she had sent out invitations to the world and his wife to come view her new maid. He realised with a flush of embarrassment that he was going to have to appear before his erstwhile sex partner in the maid’s uniform. He was extremely reluctant to do so. All his previous excitement vanished in a moment and he could feel the erection disappearing just as quickly.

Harriet must have removed Katrina’s gag. How else could she eat? And they were holding a conversation while they waited for him to appear. Tom cast about desperately for a way out of this predicament, but there was none. Running out of the house, even if the back door might be unlocked, which he doubted, wasn’t on. Nor was disobeying Harriet. He was trapped.

Grasping the nettle, and also the tea tray, Tom went through into the front room. Katrina was too surprised, or too well-bred to say anything so Harriet once again got in the first word. ‘I think you know one another by now. Tom, you’ll have to help Katrina to eat.

Despite his own embarrassment Tom noticed that Katrina was ill at ease too. She was wearing nothing but her thumbcuffs and the rosy flush he had noticed when he entered her cell earlier. He set the tray down and attempted a smile which, he hoped, concealed his own discomfiture. He helped Katrina to seat herself comfortably on the settee while Harriet took the armchair opposite, intending no doubt to observe her two charges. There was nothing for it, but to go on. Tom sat down next to Katrina and held a sandwich for her to eat.

It was like hand-feeding an animal, and was doubtless one of Harriet’s rituals designed to show who was in charge here. Katrina nevertheless gave him a small, self-deprecating smile as she ate from his hand. Tom wiped her mouth with a serviette and offered her coffee. She swallowed a mouthful and ate another sandwich. She must have felt awkward, because she avoided looking directly at anyone whenever she could. Tom knew exactly how she felt.

It was Harriet who filled the awkward silence, sounding not the least abashed herself. ‘Cat got your tongues? I thought two people who had just made mad passionate love to one another would have more to say. Never mind,’ she went on, not giving either of them a chance to frame a reply. ‘Katrina, Tom tells me you enjoyed it immensely when he milked your breasts. Do tell me all about it.’

Tom thought of bulls at large in china shops as Katrina blushed an even deeper shade of red and almost choked on the food. Tom patted her back and helped her to recover. He was forgetting all about his own awkwardness in the face of Harriet’s gaucherie.