The Voyeur (12 page)

All that could be heard was the arduous panting of all three of the kitchens occupants. Anya’s backside felt the pull of the toy within her as she crouched. Her strength was failing, and her covetous need to experience a cock between her thighs was intense.

Still twisting the tail around and around his fingers, suddenly and without warning, Mark yanked hard. Clara gave an unguarded scream as the first silver bullet shot from her backside. She was unable to prevent herself from tensing, knowing the second bullet was still to be released; Mark felt his length receive an incredible grip from Clara’s muscles. Sensing his housekeeper was close to coming, Mark withdrew his shaft from her shuddering body, before freeing her entirely from anal invasion.

Anya could see Clara’s eyes clouding over, her palms sliding a little against the tiled floor, her chest rising and falling as if she’d just run a marathon.

Mark then lunged at Anya with a speed that spoke of desperation. As he entered her, Anya thought she would cry, such was her relief at finally being fucked by her employer. She felt as if she and Clara had just been given the ultimate reward for their service over the last six months.

Removing Anya’s butt-plug with more haste than he had Clara’s, Mark’s mind blurred. He had to come, but in which woman? How could he choose between them? Both were loyal, sexy, beautiful, and willing to take anything he threw at them.

‘Clara, come here.’ The housekeeper was instantly at his side. ‘Climb astride Anya, and lean over her back so I can see your pussy lined up next to hers.’

Faced with the sight of two cunts lined up on top of one another, Mark could hold back no longer. Withdrawing from Anya, he placed a finger on each of their clits and rubbed. There was no grace or subtlety in his attention, but it was incredibly affective.

As his girls began to whimper, automatically moving together, acting as one, loving the friction their flesh could offer each other, Mark came to a decision. ‘This is to say thank you. I am sorry I have never told you how incredible you both are.’

As he finished his short speech, the women spasmed against his hands, their climaxes causing them to collapse to the floor. Letting go of them, Mark gripped his solid length, and spunked all over their entwined bodies.

He left the kitchen without another word, leaving his workforce, thoroughly spent, sore, and more worried than ever that they were about to lose their jobs.

Mark had thanked them. Mark never thanked them!

Chapter Thirteen

Anya didn’t like what was happening, not one bit. She had no doubt that the announcement by Mark at breakfast the following morning that Clara was to help out at Bridge’s for 24 hours had everything to do with the commencement of Fantasy 13. The final vestiges of hope Anya had clung onto since Craig had so briefly, yet so brutally, reappeared in her life, her belief that Bridge’s and its management had nothing to do with the realisation of Mark’s decisive challenge, faded into dust.

Tight-lipped since his unexpected showing of gratitude the previous evening, Mark stood silently next to Anya as his chauffeur whisked Clara away to London. It was time for his housekeeper to take her part in the complex web of events he’d woven in his attempts to free himself of Bridge’s, keep Anya, and experience the ultimate in voyeuristic pleasure. It was also time he came clean to his PA. Without her on his side, Mark knew he had already lost.

Clara’s unease had been growing ever since she’d been bundled into Mark’s limo that morning with nothing more than instructions to do whatever was asked of her.

Now, as she hovered in the oak-panelled corridor that ran through the middle of the gentleman’s club where Anya had once worked, a tray of drinks in her hand, Clara was consumed with a sense of foreboding. Unable to reconcile the dampening at her crotch with her trepidation at the thought of what might be to come, she opened the study door, and went in.

Dr Sparrow was addressing his team prior to their forthcoming match in the final of the London Gentleman’s Clubs Cricket Championship. Mostly ex-university, the good ones of course, the men were all tall and muscular as befitted the sportsman in each of them. Every hair on Clara’s head felt as though it was standing on end as her eyes fell on Craig, her brain disloyally reminding her body what a good fuck he was.

Obviously annoyed at whatever was in the process of being discussed as Clara arrived, Craig was biting off every word as he spoke. ‘I think we’re damn good. Can’t you believe in us, for fuck’s sake?’ His short, rusty hair bristled as he drew his hand through it in agitation.

Trying to soothe the captain’s ruffled feathers, Sparrow responded as though he was talking to a sulky teenager. ‘I have every faith in you, Craig, but a bit of a push doesn’t hurt. We are a hair’s breadth from winning the trophy back. I simply don’t want any distractions.’

‘All right for you though, isn’t it!’ The team’s wicketkeeper added fuel to Craig’s flame. ‘How is the obliging Ms Hill? Still screwing her every hour on the hour?’

‘She is fine, thank you, James, as you will recall from only yesterday when you serviced her in the kitchen. I am simply saying that while the ownership of the Bridge’s Cup is in question, we should all channel all our energies into the game, and not on screwing all around us.’

‘We joined this team for
two
reasons; cricket was just one of them. You can’t …’ Craig stopped his rant in mid-flow as he finally noted the presence of Clara waiting uneasily with a tray of brandy by the door.

Dr Sparrow’s face flushed angrily. ‘Miss Hooper. I didn’t hear you come in.’

‘Ms Hill asked me to bring your drinks through.’ Clara felt every eye hostile on her. ‘Sorry,’ she mumbled, placing the tray of drinks on the table, ‘I didn’t mean to disturb you.’

Turning on her heels, getting out of the room as quickly as she could, Clara was surprised to find that her pulse was racing. She had the strangest feeling she’d had a lucky escape. Pausing on the far side of the door, she could faintly hear the voice of the manager saying, ‘A punishment due there already, I think. A warm-up for the main event would certainly be in line with our agreement with Mark. Ms Hill will be pleased.’

Agreement with Mark?
Clara’s body chilled. This was eerily similar to the experience Anya had described of her time at Bridge’s. So Fantasy 13 has started, but where is Anya? And why isn’t Mark here watching every move? Surely he won’t want to miss a second of this? Her mind bursting with questions, Clara headed to the kitchen, and shut the door firmly behind her.

‘An hour?’ Anya was amazed at how level she was managing to keep her voice.

‘Yes. We leave in an hour.’ Mark held a small bag of clothes out to Anya, his face a mask of serenity, belying the turmoil of agitation and erotic excitement within. So long in the planning; so long in the waiting – his voyeuristic dream now rested in the hands of the woman sitting on her desk chair, her face pale, her hands fidgeting at the line of her skirt.

‘You are telling me that in one hour I have to go back to that place?’ She spoke slowly, a lump building in her throat. Despite having experienced far more in the arena of kinky perversities with Mark than she ever had at Bridge’s, Anya felt a cold chill at the thought of returning to the club’s oppressive atmosphere.

However illogical, Anya knew she had always been safe at Parker Software. She had always been convinced that her employer cared for her, albeit in a rather unusual way, and that if she’d asked Mark to stop any of his games at any time, he would have done so. No way would Craig or Ms Hill
ever
stop if she’d objected to their plans, and Sparrow would never have stuck up for her. Anya gathered her thoughts. ‘I don’t want to go there. I work for you now.’

Mark paused. ‘Not exactly … I have a confession to make.’

Suddenly Anya felt the urge to run. To run away. To grab the small holdall of clothes, sprint out of the door, and never come back. Only two things kept her sitting on the familiar squashy leather chair. The first was her love for Clara. The second was the need to know what Fantasy 13 held in store for her – and how good the result might feel against her over-stimulated flesh. As she prepared herself to listen to Mark’s confession, Anya cursed her treacherous body’s constant requirement for sex.

‘When I found you at Bridge’s – when you
think
I found you – well, I’d seen you before.’

‘Before?’ Anya’s brow furrowed. ‘When?’

Mark patted his knees and, to her astonishment, Anya found herself walking over to him, climbing onto his lap so she faced him, her legs straddling his.

Anya braced herself to hear things she didn’t want to hear. As Mark played his fingers through her hair, the PA was caught between confusion and pleasure. She had never expected such a loving gesture from her employer; even compared to him thanking her and Clara the previous evening, this felt incredibly intimate and out of character. Immediately Anya feared the worst.

‘I had watched you on a video Dr Sparrow had made without your knowledge – I suspect quite possibly without anyone’s knowledge.’

Anya thought hard. Until her experience with Craig, although she had been well aware of the rumours that surrounded the place, she had only had one sexual encounter at Bridge’s. An encounter she had thought to be entirely private and nothing to do with the gentleman’s club, in spite of the fact that it had taken place on their premises. In fact, she was hard pressed to think of it as an encounter of that nature at all – for it had been a total shock, and entirely unsolicited.

‘If there is one thing I learnt very quickly from my association with that particular club,’ Mark said, seeing the disquiet etched on Anya’s face, ‘it is that you should never,
ever
trust Ms Hill. She is only loyal to two people. Herself and Sparrow. No one else.’

The remaining colour drained from Anya’s face. ‘But … I?’ She was about to launch into an explanation of that fateful morning when she had unwittingly upset Ms Hill, not long after starting her job as the club’s administrative assistant, when a fresh wave of foreboding gripped her. ‘Oh God! Clara! Clara is with Ms Hill now, isn’t she? How
could
you?’

Leaping off Mark’s lap, Anya forgot her position as servant in the face of her anger. ‘This is about me, isn’t it? Fantasy 13 is just a cover! An excuse to get your rocks off while sorting some deal with Bridge’s. And all because I managed to escape the advances of that awful woman!’ Her cheeks flushed in fury. Her hands were fixed to her hips. ‘Tell me, Mark. You owe me an explanation. Now.’

* * *

The sound of the door handle opening sent shivers down Clara’s spine as she laid out the fourth in a row of canapés required for the cricket teas.

Deciding not to turn and see who had entered the room, thankful for the discipline Mark had installed in her that made her able not to react to every sound, Clara carried on adding sprigs of mint to the edges of each plate.

The click-click of high heels as they crossed the cold, tiled floor told Clara who it was, though. She had been expecting her.

‘You should hurry, Miss Hooper. The match begins in one hour – the food still has to be plated and on the tables for when the teams come off for a break at four o’clock.’

Without moving her attention from her work, Clara replied, ‘Everything will be ready and waiting by four.’

Picking up a carving knife and fork, Clara turned her attention to a joint of cold roast chicken that needed slicing into wafers. Her hands were amazing steady as she began the task, despite Ms Hill’s voice dripping down the back of her neck like ice cubes.

‘Mr Parker said you were good at your job; I see you intend to live up to that reputation.’

‘I will do my best.’

‘And if your best isn’t good enough?’

‘Then Mr Parker will make sure that I am punished, as you know very well.’

Ms Hill paused; she hadn’t expected the housekeeper to be so self-assured. Mark had painted her as the more submissive of his pair of employees, but that was not the vibe Ms Hill was getting as she observed slice after slice of chicken make an exact pile on the side of the butcher’s block upon which Clara worked.

Clara’s stomach fizzed with tension. She’d met women like her at Discreet. She knew must not give in to her natural deference; otherwise the secretary would take the upper hand in the blink of an eye.

Ms Hill moved closer, until she was directly behind Clara, her breath tickling the back of her neck as she hissed, ‘Whatever Anya told you is irrelevant here and now. Here and now is where you do what she would not.’

Mark took hold of both Anya’s hands; but rather than clenching them so that she couldn’t move her, he held them gently. ‘Listen. This is important, and time is short. Your confrontation in the kitchen – when Ms Hill’s attempt to seduce you in her own special way failed – was caught on camera. Somehow, however, Ms Hill managed to convince Sparrow that you had led her on, and then backed out of sex with her, leaving the secretary feeling humiliated. She convinced Sparrow that you should be taught a lesson.’

Anya’s mouth opened wide, the injustice of Ms Hill’s actions prompting an outburst of protest that never came as Mark carried on, speaking as quickly as he could. ‘At the same time as you were there, I was trying to negotiate myself out of some trouble with the club in general.’

Saying nothing, her throat dry as she listened, Anya wished Mark would hurry up with his explanation so she could get to Clara faster.

‘I had lost a bet. The cricket team lost a match I was sure they would win – the London Gentleman’s Cricket Club Final. In other words, the Bridge’s Cup – the very cup they are playing to retrieve today. It was a stupidly large bet. I was arrogant and over-reached myself.

‘Sparrow had me backed into a corner. He wanted half my business as payment, but I wasn’t willing to give him that – so we hit upon a deal.’

‘I was the deal?’ The PA felt every vestige of her self-confidence evaporate. Mark didn’t take me on because he thought I’d be a good PA after all – he had no choice.

‘You were. I’m so sorry, Anya.’

Her eyes dulled. She extracted her hands from his, and climbed off his lap.

‘Don’t think I have ever regretted my decision to take you on. I have not. You are the PA I thought you’d be. Professional to the end. Plus, I saw from the moment I set eyes on you in that video that you were the girl I was looking for to help me live out my private fantasies.’

‘Why should I believe you?’ She crossed her arms protectively over her chest, trying not to think about the lines of writing on her back and the experiences she’d been through to achieve a tick next to each one.

‘Because you know it’s true. Because if you look into my eyes you can see it is true. Because in all the months we’ve been together I have never lied to you.’

‘You have withheld information many times.’

‘For your own good.’

Unable to argue with the truth of that, Anya said, ‘Go on …’

Clara didn’t react as the thin, cold hands gripped her shoulders. Hiding the increased beat of her heart and laying to one side the carving knife and fork, she ignored the firm presence as best she could, continuing to layer the cut meat onto a plate by hand.

‘Mark expects you to do everything you tell him, doesn’t he?’

‘He does.’ Clara spoke with a gritted determination not to appear weak, already knowing full well where this conversation was going.

‘Then, as you belong to me today, he would expect you to do all I tell you. Correct?’

Still working, and wishing Anya had told her the details of what had happened between her and the club secretary, Clara replied carefully, ‘I was informed that I was to work as a caterer for you today. So that is what I thought I would be doing.’

Too late she realised she’d been foolish in her response. Ms Hill’s hackles rose abruptly and Clara’s head was tugged back hard as the secretary grabbed her neat blonde ponytail, and almost growled into Clara’s neck. ‘You, Miss Hooper, appear to be labouring under a misapprehension. You
will
do
whatever
I tell you.’

Towing Clara backward, Ms Hill pulled her so hard that her neck felt taut and awkward, and Clara had no choice but to go with the older woman. There was no point in struggling. The housekeeper had known this was going to happen; she also knew she’d be a fool not to comply with Ms Hill’s instructions.

Virtually thrown onto the short sofa situated in the corner of the spacious kitchen, Clara gasped as Ms Hill sat on her as if she was simply an interestingly shaped cushion.