Hot Pursuit (15 page)

The record keeper's staunch frown gave nothing away. He was an elderly figure, with a long grey beard and wispy hair that could have made him look like some kind but dusty wizard from a Harry Potter story. His stooping posture and aged suit added to the impression of advanced years and it was only his eyes, dark and sparkling with their own devilish light, that made his appearance remarkable. He wore a pair of thin-framed spectacles, their bridge sitting on the tip of his nose and allowing him to peer at her from above the upper rim, and she was unsettled by the intensity of his gaze. His eyes looked peculiarly young in his lined and creased face while everything else about him seemed aged, haggard and timeworn.

Clearing her throat, trying not to be intimidated by the way he was studying her, Ginger's pet blonde forced herself to sound confident as she said, ‘My mistress sent me here because of a runaway slave. I've been charged with the duty of safeguarding the runaway's deeds of indenture. I was told to come to you for help.'

The record keeper raised a finger to his lips and shushed her. Untroubled by her puzzled expression he pointed to a sign over the library's exit and she turned to read the words:
SILENCE PLEASE, SPEAK ONLY WHEN SPOKEN TO
.

Flustered by the restrictions that the sign placed upon her, Ginger's pet blonde regarded the record keeper helplessly. She watched with mounting apprehension as his smile twisted cruelly. With a thrill of dismay she noticed he was relishing the authority he wielded over her. A band of panic tightened across her chest as she realised this meeting would most
likely go the way her mistress had predicted. A flush of burning colour scorched her cheeks and the prickle of embarrassed tears stung the corners of her eyes.

‘I've already been notified that a runaway slave might be headed here,' the record keeper intoned dryly. ‘But I wasn't informed that a guard had been ordered.' Considering her with obvious mistrust he added, ‘If I had been informed, I might have expected your master to employ a more effective force.'

Ginger's pet blonde lowered her gaze and her blush blossomed fully.

There had been the usual pomp and ceremony to herald their arrival at the Welsh baronial hall, with Donald and his entourage being lauded as visiting dignitaries. The master of the estate had personally welcomed them, given them a brief tour of the hall, stables and grounds, and boasted proudly about the efficiency of the library of deeds. Following dutifully, Ginger's pet blonde had heard the master speak highly of the record keeper and explain that the man held an unusual position within the hierarchy of the barons. The record keeper wasn't a master, and never had been, but he wielded greater authority than had ever been accorded to any other mere member of staff.

Ginger's pet blonde hadn't understood what that meant until her mistress broke it down with a typically blunt interpretation: ‘He's a norm with a master's privileges,' she had snarled. ‘And he'll be able to get away with whatever he wants.' Her contempt had been apparent from the disgust in her voice to the sneer that curled her scarlet lips. ‘That sort sicken me,' she had confided. ‘They touch up the favourites and the pets, but they don't have the finesse or the aplomb of a true master.' With an air of knowledge that might have been first-hand, or could have been callous speculation, she added,
‘Most of them are kinky old perverts just looking to be dominated or pussy-whipped. But, rather than honestly stating their drives, they usually get their kicks from minor acts of domination.'

Standing in the depths of the record keeper's intimidating shadow, uncomfortable with the predatory way he leered at her, the blonde wondered if her mistress's assessment of the situation might be correct. She quietly wished Ginger was by her side, to deal with the daunting stranger and imprint her own characteristic authority on the situation, but Ginger's pet knew that wasn't feasible. This errand was part of her mistress's back-up plan a safeguard to assure the capture of Lucy ahead of their master and it wasn't a task that Ginger could personally undertake without her absence arousing Donald's suspicion.

‘Can you . . .?' Ginger's pet blonde began.

The record keeper placed his finger over his lips and, again, pointed to the sign behind her.
SILENCE PLEASE. SPEAK ONLY WHEN SPOKEN TO
.

The warning stopped her from delivering the question and she stood uncomfortable beneath his penetrating gaze. His lascivious interest was distinctly unpleasant and each time he darted his obscenely pink tongue across his wrinkled lips, she imagined he was contemplating some vile act of unwanted intimacy. Blushing with embarrassment, she shuffled her slight weight from one foot to the other and waited until he finally asked her what she wanted.

‘Can you show me where the runaway's deeds are stored?' she asked softly. Flicking her gaze around the extensive drawer fronts that dominated the majority of the library, she added, ‘Do you think you'll be able to find them?'

The record keeper considered her for a moment longer, his shrewd eyes narrowing before he finally
seemed to come to a decision. The wrinkles on his cheeks tightened into a hideous grin before he nodded slightly and said, ‘The filing here is meticulous and I can certainly show you the runaway's deeds.'

She almost swooned with relief, grateful that he was going to allow her to obey her mistress's instruction. The fear of failure was an ever-present worry in the pet's life and never so strong as when she fretted that she might disappoint Ginger. But, having heard him say he could show her Lucy's deeds, Ginger's pet blonde was touched by the hope that she would manage her duties at the library without incident.

The record keeper said, T can show you the runaway's deeds. And I'll allow you to stay here and guard them, if that's what you want. But, before we progress any further, you will undress.'

Ginger's pet blonde blinked and opened her mouth to ask him to repeat the instruction but she knew there would be no point. She had known staff abuse their positions of authority before, and almost expected it in some areas of the baronies, but she hadn't thought she would be faced by such blatant opportunism so soon after her arrival at the Welsh hall. Even though the record keeper had been studying her with obvious lechery she hadn't anticipated that he would make such a bold demand. Hardly aware that she was doing it, she placed a protective hand over her chest. If not for her memory of the sign behind her she would have shrieked an emphatic refusal.

The record keeper tut-tutted impatiently and glared toward the ceiling. His wrinkled brow furrowed with exasperation and he shook his head. ‘You will undress to prove that you're not the runaway,' he explained testily. His voice remained low but it was clearly a struggle for him to balance his anger with a
tone that suited the rules of his library. ‘I've been informed that a slave escaped. I've checked the records to confirm what I can about her appearance. But I want to see you naked to prove that you're not her. Do you understand that?'

She considered what he was saying, and couldn't fault the reasoning behind his request, but it was still unthinkable simply to take her clothes off at the command of a member of staff. Ginger had often said the staff were little more than norms who happened to be on the payroll and the thought of supplicating herself to someone so unworthy made the pet wrinkle her nose with distaste. ‘Don't the deeds of indenture contain photographs?' she asked warily.

‘Yes,' the record keeper agreed. ‘The deeds of indenture do contain photographs. And within these libraries I have pictures of more than a thousand young women screaming in agony and ecstasy with their features made indistinct by pleasure or pain. But photographs aren't foolproof. My eyes aren't what they once were and I've established my own methods of identification.' Impatience had quickened his speech as he went on and his lack of tolerance was more than apparent when he stiffly concluded, ‘Those methods can be best employed if you undress.'

She still didn't trust him, but realised there was no other choice. Glancing sceptically around the deserted room uncomfortable with the easy way he was dominating her, and the easier way that she was allowing him Ginger's pet blonde began to remove her clothes. While they had been travelling Donald and Ginger had allowed her to wear jeans and a T-shirt and she slipped them from her body with sickening ease. The flimsy cotton peeled away from her torso, leaving her breasts bare and exposed. The stiff denim slid down her legs to reveal that she wore
no underwear. Within moments of acceding to his request, Ginger's pet blonde stood naked in the centre of the library. She had kept on the pair of high heels, sure that he couldn't object to her wearing them, but the shoes only made her feel more awkward with her situation. Painfully aware of her own desirable figure, she knew the heels would be making her legs look lean and muscular.

The record keeper's wizened lips tightened into a smile of approval. ‘How perfectly lovely,' he murmured. ‘How perfectly and absolutely lovely.'

His words made her stomach churn with dismay. She had been presented in front of masters and favourites before a few of them had been less attractive than the record keeper, and many of them were clearly capable of making greater demands on her but she had never previously felt this wave of self-disgust. She supposed her judgement had been tainted by her mistress's snobbery, and guessed she was probably repulsed by the idea of being dominated by a mere member of staff, but the rationalisation didn't lessen her feelings of distaste or vulnerability. Ashamed and embarrassed, she lowered her gaze rather than contemplate the devilish glint in his eyes.

His hand went to her jaw and he tilted her face so she had to stare at him. His thin, bony fingers were surprisingly strong and there was no way to escape his powerful hold. Grudgingly, she met the challenge of his intense gaze.

‘Don't look so upset,' he chastised lightly. ‘I'm only confirming your identity. I'll try not to make this any more intrusive than is necessary.'

The words gave her no comfort, especially when he lowered his hand and cupped the swell of her breast. His angular fingers didn't caress her the way she liked
her flesh to be brushed and she thought his skin was repulsively cold, dry and uninspiring. It was like being fondled by a reptilian skeleton and, if she hadn't feared the repercussions from her mistress, Ginger's pet blonde would have pulled herself away from his loathsome touch and fled from the library.

Taking his time, making no attempt to disguise his enjoyment of the examination, the record keeper caught the tip of her breast between his finger and thumb and squeezed. His eyes, bright to begin with, almost shone as the traitorous bead of flesh thickened and grew hard. When her nipple had reached full stiffness his thin-lipped smile inched wider to reveal a row of magnolia dentures.

‘How perfectly lovely,' he said again. ‘How perfectly and absolutely lovely.'

The blonde flushed with embarrassment. Her cheeks burnt with a crimson shame that she hadn't felt since her long ago life as a norm, when she first encountered Ginger and then became her pet. Flustered by her own nervousness, and trying to set some limits, she invested her tone with cowed authority and said, ‘You don't need to touch me like that.'

He pointed toward the sign above the door again before continuing:
SILENCE PLEASE, SPEAK ONLY WHEN SPOKEN TO
.

‘Don't make me remind you about that rule again,' he warned absently. ‘I may only be a member of staff but I have the authority to punish disobedience and that's a power I'm quite happy to wield.'

His fingers remained around her nipple, gently rolling back and forth, and igniting a surge of responses she couldn't bring herself to acknowledge. She caught an unexpected sigh at the back of her throat, stifling the sound before it could reveal the depths of the effect his touch had inspired.

With his concentration fixed intently on her breast, the record keeper didn't seem to notice. ‘And I think it's necessary that I should touch you like this,' he confided. ‘According to her deeds of indenture the runaway slave has pierced nipples. I want to assure myself you have no rings or piercing holes.'

The pet fixed her shoulders squarely, willing her body not to respond to the hatefully exciting stimulus and sure it was already too late to pretend she was unaffected. ‘If that's all you needed to examine, then you can see my breasts have never been pierced. If that's all you needed to see then you'll let me get dressed now, won't you?'

He shook his head, his gleeful smile turning sinister. ‘I can't see any signs of this breast being pierced,' he admitted. As though he was trying to prove a point, his hand slipped to her other breast. He snatched the tip of her nipple between his finger and thumb and the pet was sickened to feel the flesh growing instantly hard.

The record keeper peered closely, pushing his nose nearer until it almost touched her pliant skin. His eyes shone with malicious glee as he studied her over the rim of his spectacles. ‘I can't see any indication that you've been pierced,' he repeated. ‘But I'm just a poor old man with failing eyesight and only rudimentary knowledge of how a young woman's body heals.' The devilish glint burnt more brightly and seemed to undermine his claims to being a weak and frail old man. ‘I spend my days in this dusty old library,' he continued. ‘And I know little about the cosmetics that can be used to change hair colour, disguise faces or hide piercing holes. I only know, according to the deeds I've been reading, it wasn't just the runaway's nipples that had been pierced.'

Ginger's pet blonde understood what he was implying but she was still shocked to feel his hand
reach between her legs. There was no art or grace in his touch: he simply reached for her labia and squirmed his dry fingers urgently against her sex. Her eyes opened wide and she struggled to find words of protest before deciding they would be useless. Helplessly, she bit her lower lip in an attempt to quell her indignity.