Prologue

 

Through the open door of the bathroom, he heard her heels peck their way up from the ground-floor of the impeccable home he had only just managed to clean and polish to her standards before her arrival back.

Normally, he would have been waiting with the front-door open in anticipation of the crunch of tires on the gravel of the courtyard and the entrance of her Volkswagen Scirocco swinging in to a halt. Then it would be a dignified rush - she found it disrespectful to be kept waiting but expected her "Man" to maintain a certain decorum - to open her door and stand respectfully to one side as her shapely limbs, bare and tan, or sensuously hosed, heralded her arrival on home turf. He would then retrieve her briefcase from the Scirocco's interiors - and any other work she had fetched home with her - before serving her the pale sherry she enjoyed to drink chilled and removing her footwear. The latter prior to supplying her feet, sweaty and fragrant from a day at the office, with a most intense and satisfying foot-massage.

Intense and satisfying for her, that is.

Such was not the case today.

Today his bare arse was planted upon the chill of the bathroom's ceramic floor-tile in her en-suite while his splayed feet displayed his denuded cock and balls to the gaze of anyone entering. Together with the tip of a pierced foreskin and a cage attached to a tiny combination padlock at his likewise pierced scrotum that kept the two together. A sure means of preventing any unauthorised erections and incurring her wrath.

But it was not the display of himself he found so mortifying on this occasion.

That honour went to the toilet basin he could feel against his back and the use she would make of it upon her return home.

A use of which she had given him prior knowledge, certain it would play upon his mind all day as he went about the completion of the chores she had set him and ensure his dread of what would happen when she returned - despite the humiliations he had endured at her hands thus far - would give an abject physical act the symbolism she fully intended him to accord it.

As her heels pecked a passage to the top of the stairs upon the stripped pine that covered the whole house save for the kitchen and bathrooms, the same flooring she insisted he maintain at the most pristine of levels, he shifted forward and then slid back so that his head overhung the bowl of the toilet itself; careful to ensure that his hands were clasped "respectfully" behind his back.

Just as she expected.

The pecking moved closer along the hallway and he felt a lump at his throat that was a mixture of nervousness, revulsion, and a desire to twist around and vomit into the bowl at the approach of a woman he knew at some level to be deeply disturbed.

Even if her social, professional, and financial standing spoke against his certainty.

At least with those without specialised knowledge of their subject.

How could any person, let alone a member of the so-called softer and more sensitive sex, do what she was about to do and still be regarded as one-hundred-percent sane?

And what would those outsiders viewing her behaviour make of the man who allowed her to gratify her perverse and putrid desires?

The sounds of her approaching footfall took on a different timbre as the heels of her courts exchanged stripped pines for ceramic floor tile and he sensed her eyes drinking in the sight he made for her.

And why would she not quench her thirst in such a way?

Had she not been the one, after all, who had insisted upon the piercing of his genitals?

Small surprise then, given that she had also eschewed the employment of a man or a woman trained to perform such depraved mutilation and taken on the job herself, that she would find the sight of her own handiwork so... enthralling.

"Good boy, Michael," her voice gave praise that was patronising and demeaning at one and the same time; devoid of any infection that might hint at the looks provided her courtesy of a Basque mother and her antecedents. "I am pleased with you. You have divined my wishes to the letter."

It was, he told himself, no great compliment to him, seeing as how she had taken such pains to ensure he knew exactly what she required.

And the penalties he would incur were he to... disappoint.

"If it is a consolation to that manhood I know you cling to so doggedly and, I am afraid, pointlessly," she began, the cold Northern looks supplied by her father belying the warmer southern influence supplied from her mother's side of the union; "then I can tell you that what is about to happen between us is neither new nor unusual."

Above him, and out of sight of eyes, when they were not screwed shut in a futile attempt to blot out his shame, that could see only white stucco ceiling, he heard a low chuckle.

Then:

"Or at least it wasn't in the Japan of the Middle-Ages."

Eyes closed, he heard a rustling as she raised her skirt, knowing as he did, having dressed her that morning, that today she had eschewed the wearing of panties to work.

That she may be ready to "mark" her "property" the moment she returned.

"Who do you belong to?" she asked, a question that was unthinkable to him not so long before now seeming almost... natural.

Unwillingly, but knowing she expected it of him, he allowed his eyes to flutter open.

The sight was incredible and, under almost any other circumstances, he knew he would have found the denuded gash peering down at him with pitiless inscrutability... arousing.

But not today, he told himself.

Not now.

Perhaps never.

In this, he was about to be proved spectacularly wrong.

"I belong to you, Ma'am," the words left his lips, careful to be audible enough that she did not make him repeat his words and humiliate himself doubly.

But then, he thought to himself, what possible difference could it make. The jockey wearing the colours of his pride had spurred his mount into a gallop and disappeared over the horizon some time ago. Never to be seen again.

"Good boy, Michael," he heard again from above, his view of that cold yet erotic face obscured by an equally sexy cunt she assured him his cock would never feel either side of its rampant need - even if she did decide his behaviour warranted his manhood being given an airing. Even her praise of him serving only to demean what had once been a vibrant and masculine sense of self.

"Now," she continued. "I want you to stare up into your owner's superior womanhood and not close your eyes."

Her voice became stern and, despite the shame he felt for his reaction, tiny egg-bumps of fear erupted the length of his body.

"I will know if you do and will be most disappointed. Understand?"

"Yes, Ma'am," he said, though his eyes were firmly closed still.

"Open them now," she ordered.

It was an effort for him. After all the blows to his manhood she had delivered he might have expected to be a little more inured to his situation, but that was manifestly not the case. Memories of that not so far distant existence when he functioned as a real man, worthy of respect, kept re-surfacing to make the daily humiliations of a social and sexual kind she served up to him as painful now as they had been at the beginning of her conquest of his will and his individuality.

Again, as he stared up at that slit of womanly perfection - the same slit that was about to proclaim its ownership of him and mark his body as hers in the most ancient of ways one human could declare ownership of another - he asked himself why, if his anger and moral outrage for what she was doing to him was so great - was the cock he had only just declared disinterested responding to her with such painful desperation.

He could see her eyes above him as she bent at the waist and, even from his reversed perspective, he could see the shine of her unnatural excitement and anticipation for, and of, what was to come.

"As with the Shoguns of old," she told him unnecessarily, given she had warned him of what to expect ahead of time and explained the provenance as well as the significance of the ancient ritual, "I am exercising my natural superiority over an inferior being to mark it with my waste as a possession."

He felt revulsion and impotent anger do battle in his soul and felt both come up wanting. He neither vomited and nor was he stung into the physical rebellion that might have reversed his emasculation. As a rodent mesmerised by a snake, he could do nothing more than remain in place and stare up at that part of her anatomy about to baptise him in his servitude to her.

A knowledge of what was about to befall him that made her commentary wholly unnecessary.

Save for the fact it gave her such incredible pleasure to speak such words to him.

"When my piss has anointed your body and enough time has passed for it to dry," she spoke down to him, "I shall allow to you to clean yourself."

Her smile from its reversed perspective was no less evil for being rapturous.

"But from that moment in a few seconds' time when my bodily waste anoints your body as mine, and even after you have cleaned yourself of the scent belonging to your owner, you will know beyond any shade of deniability that your life has passed into my possession."

The eyes staring down at him with such an unholy light seemed to divine his innermost and troubled thoughts.

"Of course," she began; "you are telling yourself right now - as you have since you first became my assistant - that this is a setback in your life from which you will eventually recover."

Her smile did not offer optimism on that score.

"But if you believe that," she went on, her certainty adding to his impotent fury, "then you must necessarily question exactly how such a transformation can be achieved."

She was right, of course. He had indeed - and just as he had even in the dark days of the real prison he had experienced before being placed in hers - been assuring himself that his humiliation was temporary and that life would once again smile upon him at some point. But how and from whence would his salvation arrive.

The sadistic bitch above was about to point out, and not from the first time, those avenues he would far better served viewing as cul-de-sacs.

"Could it be the life enhancing prospects of a new career that will rescue you from your new situation?" she asked with great sarcasm, pressing her bare ankles in their heels closer to his, likewise naked, flanks as she rested her hands upon the cistern above him.

"No. That can't be," she said, as if to herself. Apart from as my manservant, you don't have a career, do you?"

The question required no answer; even if one had occurred to him.

"And with a criminal record prominent on your CV; along with the fact you have no home of your own were you to ever find the courage to leave mine; it borders the fantastical to think you might ever have a career of the type you have known again. Unless, that is, the employment of Fast-Food-Staff and supermarket trolley-park operatives takes on a more glamorous status."

The scent of her overheating pussy, some seven inches or so above his sensitive nose, was enveloping his senses to leave his thoughts and responses in direct conflict with each other. On the one hand, he knew hated this person as much as he hated any person on the planet - even his despicable wife and the father-in-law from whom she gleaned her talent for dishonesty and betrayal; while, on the other, the aroma of her arousal in his nostrils was inflaming his senses with a power he had not believed possible for one of his relatively advanced years.

Which did not mean he didn't relish the image of himself with a chainsaw as he dissembled her, limb by sadistic and condescending limb.

And did so as his former wife and her repellent parent looked on with horror; knowing that, when one dismembering was complete, another would start.

As if she sensed his thoughts were on his former wife, she raised the temperature of the irons scorching his soul:

"Perhaps it will be family who prove your salvation. What do you think? Maybe your former wife will realise what she has lost by replacing you in both hers and your children's lives and give your replacement his marching orders? It could happen, you know?"

The tears that were never far from his eyes these days, whenever the callous abandonment of him by his wife and children was mentioned or occurred to his thoughts, threatened to saturate his cheeks yet again.

He fought them, unwilling to allow her yet another triumph to add to her trophy room containing her other sadistic triumphs. A pitiful attempt to keep at least one smidgen of manly pride from being incinerated with the rest. Even as he lay below her with his back to the toilet and awaited the piss that would mark him - in his soul, at least - as her possession forever.

"Could it be that your father-in-law will have an attack of conscience and tell the world of how he used you so badly? Yes, why not? It's possible. I can see him now, explaining to the business world that it was all a mistake and he not only wishes to repent but install you as both his son-in-law and the CEO of his company once he has stepped down."

Their eyes were locked together in silence for a few moments; those above vibrant with unnatural arousal and anticipation of what was to come; those below moist and beaten at her retelling of the life that had been stolen from him and would never know again.

Then, finally:

"Yes. That is right. That is the look I need to see from you. Acknowledgement. The less you delude yourself that this is but a temporary setback, the more you can concentrate on becoming the most devoted, loyal and servile, manservant it is possible for you to be for me."

He simply stared back up at her, hearing her words and not hearing them. As if she were talking about another man and not him. But, even as he prayed for that to be the case, a great reservoir of reality beneath the surface of his dislocated thoughts told him she was right and that, unless he wished to know poverty and the cold and remorseless embrace of the streets, he would never escape her.

As the first splash of her urine anointed his still handsome cheeks to mix with the salt of his tears, he accepted for the first time that he was indeed her... slave.

 

Chapter One

Valeria

 

My name is Valeria Norcross. Garcia Llorente on my mother's side. At the time of writing I am thirty-four-years old and besides being a solicitor I am unmarried with every intention of remaining that way. My practice is as successful as a one-woman business can be and I have my own home and a life I adore, save for in one respect.

We will come to this lack shortly.

As far as my looks go; I inherited my Spanish mother's voluptuous and powerful body, but not her beauteous face. For my somewhat forbidding visage, above self-supporting breasts and muscularly shapely legs; and beneath the stygian black and Mediterranean hair I keep scraped from my face to add to my stern and no-nonsense look; it seems I must thank a distant relation on my late English father's side. Yet another reason to dislike my half-parentage. My father was a litigator for a marine insurance company, on business in Bilbao, when he had met Mariana Garcia Llorente, my mother to be who was on a shopping trip from her native Santander just a few miles West along Spain's Basque coast. The rest, as they say, is history, and my mother decided - wrongly, in my opinion - to settle with her new husband in London.

Clapham, to be precise; though it was not then the trendy South London property cow on the borders of Wandsworth and the two eponymous commons it is now. A gentrification for which I was thankful after the passing of my parents - as sad as such things always are - left me the owner of a three-storied terraced town-house on the north side of the common adjacent to Nightingale Lane. Given that its value, even if I have no intention of ever selling, is now approaching over five times what it was worth when it became mine. With my successful one-woman solicitor's practice into the bargain, and the equity from the apartment I owned nearby and sold to move into my parent's home, you can be sure I was very comfortable even before banking the cash and investments that were the remainder of the estate.

To look at me, most people conclude my temperament must be as fiery and passionate as my Latin mother's. It is a mistake. My mother - though she looked the typical Spanish fireball - was, in fact, focused rather than fiery and certainly more calculating than passionate.

She also ruled my doting, but somewhat weak-willed - at least when it came to her - father with a rod of iron and I had long suspected they were engaged in a female-led relationship long before such things became more common.

A suspicion that, playing upon what must already have been the dominant genes of my Basque mother, led me to develop certain tastes of my own when it came to men.

A desire to wield total and utter control of a domestic and sexual nature over a man who belonged to me and knew it - even though he hated both his subservience and his owner.

Complete control that did not require me to dress up in ludicrous leather or latex outfits and heels so high I might feel vertigo; you understand?

I would not debase my desires by such ritualised pandering to the desires of men who actively sought their debasement on a temporary basis.

My control would be totally real without anything that invited the nods and winks of the herd towards the sexually... outré.

But first, it goes without saying, I had to find the right man.

Unlike my mother, however, the prospect of actually marrying a man to achieve my admittedly perverse ideal made no appeal to me whatsoever.

I did not want a partner.

No matter how junior.

What I wanted was a captive.

A chattel who, even though his own bondage to me offended and destroyed his male pride, had no option but to toe the line of his superior and half-Spanish owner.

Including, and especially, in all matters sexual.