By His Command Read online

  ‘What?’

  ‘You and your mates were all in role when I turned up earlier. I liked those costumes.’

  I sat down on the hall chair.

  ‘Jasper, I’m not at all sure what we’re doing here. You turn up out of the blue and take the place over with some cock-and-bull story about a film and I don’t know what it’s all about or why we’re here tonight or …’

  He took hold of my wrists, his grip tight.

  ‘Calm down,’ he said, with absolute authority. I recognised the tone immediately and, more importantly, so did my body. It was like rewinding my life back to that summer. I stopped gibbering and held myself still, waiting for his next command.

  ‘We’re here because we want to be,’ he said, with the same steady, slow modulation. ‘Because I want you, and you want me. And this could be a lot of fun. Don’t you think?’

  ‘I don’t know what to think …’

  ‘Then stop thinking. Just do as you’re told. Do you think you can manage that?’

  I nodded, relieved to have the pressure taken off. I was tired of analysing the situation every which way from Thursday. I wanted to fling myself backwards off the side of my life and into Jasper’s keeping. I wanted my summer back.

  ‘Good. Now show me your dressing-up box.’

  I stood and led him, still joined at the wrist, to the back parlour, a pretty little Morris-wallpapered room where things were stored, including, in a Turkish-carved ottoman, our costumes.

  ‘Do you think any of these will fit me?’ asked Jasper, pulling out my favourite of the waistcoats, a silk-embroidered affair with a peacock-feather pattern that Rob always wore rather well. ‘It’s flamboyant. I like it.’

  ‘I think you and Rob are a similar size,’ I ventured.

  ‘Are we, by Jove? And how would you know that?’ He cocked a devilish eyebrow.

  ‘I don’t mean that.’

  ‘You’d better not.’

  ‘Is that what you think of me?’

  ‘No, Sarah, it isn’t. Him, on the other hand …’

  ‘You have nothing to worry about.’

  ‘I just don’t want another lovelorn rival on my hands. Not after the last time.’

  I saw his point. That hideous tangle with his former groundsman was best forgotten.

  ‘I think you’re safe,’ I said. ‘Rob’s harmless. Oh, this shirt … I love the sleeves.’ I held up a capacious lawn cotton number and Jasper took off his hoody and slipped it on.

  ‘I feel like Lord Byron,’ he remarked, lacing it tight.

  I handed him a cravat, a plain blue one with little gold trefoils, not wanting to overegg things since the waistcoat was so gaudy.

  ‘It seems pointless to dress up like this when what I’m planning involves getting it all off again,’ he commented. ‘Still, every scene needs a bit of build-up.’

  ‘I don’t think we should …’ I opened, a little tentative.

  ‘Should what?’

  ‘I mean, the furniture is all authentic. Including the beds. I’d rather not …’

  ‘You’re afraid I’ll damage them?’

  ‘I have to work here,’ I said, biting my lip.

  ‘Nothing is going to get broken,’ he said. The waistcoat was on now and he looked good. Wicked good. The jeans didn’t really go so well, but from the waist up he was the perfect Victorian gent. All he needed was extravagant facial hair.

  He dug into the ottoman and drew out a pair of tight riding breeches. He noticed my salacious eyeing of them and said, ‘You’re still dressed. Why is that?’

  ‘Oh. I …’

  ‘Is there a corset in there?’ He peered into the depths.

  ‘I told you. We don’t wear real corsets.’

  ‘Well, that must be remedied. I’ll take you up to town on your day off. I know a woman who makes the most amazing pieces. Expensive, but you’re worth it. In the meantime, a chemise and some drawers will do.’

  I unbuttoned my jeans, glad to have an occupation for my restless fingers.

  ‘What’s this film all about then?’ I asked. Surely it couldn’t be a porn flick? Perhaps it was.

  ‘Sex,’ he said, grinning and strutting around in his riding breeches. ‘My God, I should wear these more often,’ he said, slapping his thighs. ‘I feel like a panto principal boy. Where are the matching boots? And, most importantly, the riding crop?’

  ‘Is there a riding crop in the film?’ I asked, my mouth now dry and the words sounding small and fearful.

  ‘Whatever I want to be in the film will be in the film,’ he said, posing in front of the chimney-piece mirror. ‘So, yes, I’d say a riding crop was a given.’

  He turned to smirk at me.

  I was wearing my bra and a pair of linen knee-length drawers, the type with a flap at the rear that could be opened to reveal the buttocks.

  ‘But what’s the script about?’ I persisted, wishing Jasper would, for once, give a simple answer to a simple question.

  ‘I’m sorry. You’re getting anxious again, aren’t you? You finish getting dressed and I’ll tell you.’

  He sat down in a plush armchair, watching me release my breasts then cover them again with a short, light chemise.

  ‘The script’s about social inequalities in the nineteenth century,’ he said. ‘It’s supposed to shine a light on present-day conditions. The Poor Law translating to benefit cuts and so forth. The central relationship is between a cruel upper-class bastard and his hapless maid.’

  ‘It sounds rather grim.’

  ‘It has a happy ending. She makes him see the error of his ways. At least, it’s happy for her, because she inherits his wealth when he commits suicide.’

  ‘God, we aren’t re-enacting that bit, are we?’

  He laughed. ‘No. We aren’t re-enacting anything. We’re just role-playing around the theme, I think. Nothing is set in stone quite yet. I want to see how these scenes will work.’

  ‘What scenes?’

  ‘Our cruel upper-class bastard feels threatened by the maid’s serene acceptance of every humiliating burden he casts upon her. He senses her resilience and her fortitude and it makes him mad. He wants to break her spirit. He is the Victorian patriarchy, do you see, getting increasingly wound up about the growing demands for female emancipation. He knows he isn’t going to get away with crushing them for ever, but he’ll have a good go in the short term.’

  ‘I see. Very deep. And this metaphorical spirit-crushing gives you the chance to film loads of kinky whipping scenes, am I right?’

  ‘Of course! And why not?’

  ‘It won’t do much to quell those rumours about you,’ I cautioned.

  ‘Oh, I think I’m coming to terms with that,’ he said, rising from his chair. ‘In every life there comes a time when we have to own to what we are. Don’t you think?’

  ‘It’s a dangerous philosophy.’

  ‘I like danger.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And so do you. Or you wouldn’t be here.’ He reached out and brushed my hair – which was loose in a non-Victorian style – back from my temples.

  ‘Addictions are dangerous,’ I said.

  ‘And you’re addicted?’

  I nodded.

  He cupped one breast in its flimsy chemise, taking back ownership of my body, as if he’d ever lost it. The kiss, when it came, was intense and devouring.

  ‘I think I know the feeling,’ he whispered, breaking off, his brow leaning against mine. ‘Now. Let’s play.’

  Chapter Two

  There was a scene, or so he said, in which the relationship between Cruel Bastard and Stoic Maid was established, and this was the one he wanted to try out first. It was to take place in the drawing room.

  ‘I don’t have the script,’ I objected.

  ‘It doesn’t matter. I know roughly how it goes. All you have to do is be obedient and do as you’re told, without being sulky or bratty about it. That’s the maid’s character. She takes everything, but there’s an unspoken st
rength in her that makes her obedience a form of defiance. “Do your worst,” she’s saying. “You can’t ever break me.” Do you think you can play that?’

  ‘I can try.’

  ‘OK. I’ll be by the fire – we’ll have to imagine it’s lit – drinking the ruby port I happened to bring with me. You come in and stand in front of me and I give you my opening spiel. Clear?’

  ‘Why don’t I get to wear the black and whites?’

  I was still in no more than drawers and chemise and, to be honest, the October night being what October nights are, I was rather wishing we didn’t have to just imagine the lighting of the fire.

  ‘I prefer you like that. Artistic license. Now, no more quibbling, Miss, or you’ll be quibbling with my riding crop.’ Which he had also brought with him.

  He went into the drawing room, leaving me in the hall.

  I waited a minute or two for him to pour the port, hoping he’d be careful with the crystal. But I don’t know why I thought he wouldn’t – he was, after all, one of the world’s foremost collectors of Victoriana. He was the last man to be careless with it.

  What should I do to get in role? I wondered if Jasper could give me any tips – he used to be an actor. But it was an easy enough part to play. It was the part I always played with him.

  So I straightened my back and knocked on the door.

  ‘Come.’

  I almost laughed, wondering if it was a command. We’d tried that one, but my orgasmic timing was, more often than not, a bit off. Bad Sarah. Maybe I’d perfect it sometime soon …

  I opened the door and couldn’t help a blatantly lustful checking-out of Jasper, who lolled in the armchair in his waistcoat and riding boots, looking like the hottest combination imaginable of Darcy, Rochester and Heathcliff.

  His eyes flashed a warning and I bent mine to the ground. It was the only way I’d be able to get through this without jumping on him.

  ‘So you’re the new maid,’ he said. ‘Walters.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘They tell me at the agency that you’re a hard worker who isn’t afraid to get her hands dirty. Is that true?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And that you are dutiful and obedient to a fault.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Well, if this is true, you will suit me admirably. But you must excuse me – I am by nature a suspicious man and I have great difficulty in accepting what I am told without a demonstration. It occurs to me that the agency may have exaggerated your virtues.’

  ‘No, indeed, sir, I hope not.’ I lifted my eyes to his and the expression of intent, rapturous cruelty on his face took my breath away.

  ‘Very well, then. You will show me your obedience and your capacity for hard work. Remove your dress.’

  I blinked uncertainly at him, and he waved a hand as if to say, ‘This is how we get round the difficulty of your attire.’ I did as he said, stood and waited for the next command.

  ‘Good heavens.’ He chuckled and took a sip of his port. ‘You have impressed me, Walters. Most maids would have fled the room in confusion. Well, well. Now step forwards and let me inspect you at closer quarters.’

  God, I wished he’d light the fire. We were allowed to, on cold days, and a scuttle full of coal stood nearby. But I supposed Colin wouldn’t like it, especially if we left ashes to sweep up the next morning. Perhaps next time we could bring one of those portable heaters.

  My nipples were stiff and sore with the cold and they dented the light material of my chemise very noticeably.

  ‘What are these?’ he asked, waving his hand close to where they stood to attention.

  ‘Sir?’ I couldn’t quite believe he was asking this – at least, in my role I couldn’t. What would a maid say? This maid had to be obedient, though, and I clung to that.

  ‘These? What are they?’

  ‘Nipples, sir.’

  ‘Yes, nipples. Why are they in such a shameful state, Walters?’

  ‘It’s cold, sir.’

  ‘Cold, is it? Well, in that case, you need to warm up. Run on the spot, Walters.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Yes – you know. Running, but on the spot. Well, come on then.’

  It was a bit weird, but I knew Jasper had this kink for semi-clothed exercise sessions, so I picked up my feet and did as I was told.

  ‘Get those knees right up, Walters.’

  If I lifted them any higher they’d bang my breasts, which were bouncing rather painfully, the chemise offering no support whatsoever. But it did warm me up, at least. He was right about that.

  He didn’t let me stop until I was puffing and hot-faced, having resorted to crossing my arms over my breasts to keep them under control.

  ‘That will do now, Walters. There. Warmer?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Take your arms away from your chest and prove it. Oh. They are still in quite the same condition they were before. But you can’t attribute it to cold now, surely. So what is your explanation?’

  ‘I … have no explanation, sir,’ I muttered.

  ‘Put your arms by your sides,’ he ordered, ‘and kneel in front of me. I must examine this phenomenon properly.’

  I knelt between his knees, which he obligingly spread for me, and kept my back straight and my chin up as he indicated I should.

  His palms passed gently over the tips of my nipples, rubbing the fabric of my chemise against them. They were so sensitive I felt the gush between my thighs at once.

  ‘Your predecessor, Larkin,’ he said softly, ‘used to exhibit the same tendency. In her case, the explanation was that she was an unconscionable slut. Is that true of you?’

  ‘I hope not, sir.’

  ‘Ah.’ He pinched and tweaked them so that I gasped. ‘You hope not. There we have your answer. You hope not, but you are. Just as much a slut as she ever was. Well, Walters, that is good, for we can now be on an honest footing with one another. But I’m afraid I must show you now how sluttish tendencies are dealt with in this house.’

  ‘Oh.’ It wasn’t the most stoical of little whimpers, but I had an idea of what was coming, and it wasn’t the good, solid, bent-over-the-chair-arm shagging I was hoping for.

  ‘My riding crop is on the corner table. Kindly bring it to me.’

  I wanted to hesitate, to make pleading puppy-dog eyes, but I remembered that I was Walters, and Walters did as she was told at all times with serene grace.

  I picked it up by the handle and a shudder went through me. Jasper’s fist would be wrapped around it soon and the devilish plaited length of it would be brought to bear upon my defenceless bottom. What else was a riding crop good for? Did anyone use them for actual horse riding?

  It felt alien in my hand and I was thankful to get rid of it and hand it over to Jasper, who laid it in his lap for a moment and looked me over.

  ‘Turn around,’ he said.

  I obeyed.

  ‘Do you know what I’m going to do with this riding crop?’ he asked. I heard him raise the glass to his lips again then set it down.

  ‘I, uh, I’m not sure, sir.’

  I really wanted to hear him tell me.

  ‘I’m going to punish you with it,’ he said. ‘I’m going to lay as many strokes as your tempting little posterior can take, until you are perfectly soundly thrashed and sore. Then you might think twice before showing me your saucy swollen nipples, like any whore in an alleyway. You are going to learn modesty, Walters. Kindly arrange yourself over the arm of that chair, bottom uppermost.’

  It seemed mad not to protest, but Walters would look him calmly in the eye and acquiesce, so that was what I did.

  I strained and stretched my calves and thighs, pushing my bottom out so the cotton of the drawers was tight and thin over my curves.

  ‘I suppose you’ve been thrashed before?’ he said, coming to stand beside me. He placed the flat tip of the crop on the broadest part of my bum and brushed it, almost soothingly, up and down the crease. To tell the truth, i
t stopped being soothing and started being extremely arousing pretty quickly.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You girls need it, don’t you? You need to be kept in check and taught your place.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Tell me about your last whipping, Walters. Who administered it?’

  Damn, he was going to make me use my imagination, just at the point where I was ready to sink into mindless sensation.

  ‘The housekeeper, sir, at my last place.’

  ‘Oh, the housekeeper. A lady. An older lady, I trust, of strict moral probity.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘What was your transgression?’

  ‘There was no transgression, sir. She whipped all us maids before church every Sunday, just to keep us decent, as she said.’

  ‘What a marvellous woman. To keep you decent. Yes, that’s a very fine routine. I may well adopt it myself. If this woman is ever in want of a place, you must recommend me to her.’

  ‘I will, sir.’

  ‘Tell me how she organised these Sunday-morning affairs. What did she use and how did she go about her disciplinary business?’

  ‘For these, she used a stiff leather strap that hung in the scullery at all times. For serious misdemeanours, she inclined to the birch rod, but for regular whippings it was always the strap.’

  ‘Ah, yes, I am myself a keen aficionado of the birch rod.’

  I knew that. I knew it very well.

  ‘She would line us up, sir, after the master’s breakfast things were washed up, in the kitchen. All the male staff were allowed to stay and watch, too, which was the worst of it. Much worse than the pain.’

  ‘Oh? I will bear that in mind.’

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t, sir.’

  He tapped my bottom sharply.

  ‘Your preferences are irrelevant. If I decide that you need witnesses to your shame, then witnesses there shall be.’

  I hoped that this was Cruel Film Bastard and not Jasper talking. I didn’t think I would ever be ready for that – bad enough during the summer when Will stumbled upon me, bound and thrashed, in Jasper’s grounds. I squirmed in protest, helping the little bloom of heat from the crop to fade.

  ‘Come on, then. You and your fellows lined up in the kitchen, with the male staff looking on. What happened then?’