Beware the Savage Jaw Chapter Five

Chapter Five: Silk handkerchief

“I’m sorry, Sir, I wasn’t aware you had arrived.”

Jonathan Stane was the last of the guests, other than the legendary and mysterious ‘Sleen’ himself, who had yet to appear. But Stane had arrived without any warning. I found him sitting in one of the living rooms, in an antique upholstered leather chair, gazing out at a half open veranda window, at the rain hammering down on the plank decking outside. He was perhaps in his mid-thirties with a shock of very dark hair that he kept short but fashionably messed up with a spot of wax between his fingers. I knew he was a prominent industrialist, because Rowell had told me so, and that he sat somewhere above Moorcroft in the Kur hierarchy, at roughly, but not quite the level of Montague, and well below the Tatrix, who was the most senior Kur conspirator present. 

But I hadn’t heard him arrive. There had been no boat at the jetty and no thrum of rotor blades in the wind, signifying arrival by air. He was just… suddenly here in the house. 

“Made you jump, did I?” suggested Stane as he gazed up at me. He had one leg crossed over the other as he took a good look at my calves in the cheap stockings with the black seams at the back.

“Not exactly, Sir, but I hadn’t expected someone to be in the room. I knew where everyone else was, so I was surprised to see you. Have you just arrived?”

“Perhaps.” He smiled.

“I didn’t hear a boat or helicopter.”

“Really.” He wasn’t giving much away, which was interesting in itself. Normally these Kur conspirators talk endlessly about themselves in front of a house maid. 

“You weren’t here in the house when we opened up a couple of days ago…”

“You ask a lot of questions for a maid,” said Thane. “You’re not a spy, are you? An insect worshipping spy?”

“No, Sir.” Fuck. So he was paranoid too? 

“Of course you’re not.” He laughed pleasantly, and motioned for me to relax. “Believe me, we would know if you were. We know everything.”

No, I rather think you don’t, I thought to myself. You don’t know the first thing about me for example.

“But I get concerned when maids ask probing questions. Curiosity is not becoming in a maid. Content yourself with serving your masters, and to be admired by men like me.”

“Thank you, Sir. Can I fetch you a drink?”

“No. I don’t drink.” Thane rose from his armchair and approached me. He reached out and touched my steel collar. “Such a beautiful thing, a collar on a woman. It’s perfect. Natural. Who do you belong to?”

“I’m indentured to Mr Rowell,” I said. “For five years.”

“I see.” Thane walked round me as I stood there. “You wear short heels.”

“They’re practical, Sir. I work long hours. It’s part of my uniform.” I felt his hand touch my waist and move around to where he could feel the stiff, uncomfortable lacing of my fifties style corset under the twill uniform. 

“Mm. Tightly corseted, I see.”

“Again, my uniform, Sir.”

“And?” 

“And I like to wear a corset,” I lied. “It’s feminine. It makes me feel feminine.”

“You’re a feminist?”

He meant New Feminism, of course, that patriarchal set of standards that reduced women’s rights back to the nineteen fifties. There was no way he meant real feminism. 

“I am, Sir. It has opened my eyes. I read the book when it came out.” The book was the standard text for the movement, in part servile platitudes for women to admire, combined with the sort of good housekeeping tips that would seem prudish back in the Victorian age. “Is there anything I can do for you, Sir? Do you need bags taken up to your room?”

“I don’t have any bags.” Now his hand stroked my thigh, beneath the twill fabric. I knew where this was going. “There is something you can do for me, maid. Unzip my trousers and suck me off.”

“I can’t do that, Sir,” I said as I brushed his hand away, and turned to face him.

“What did you say?”

“I can’t do that, Sir. I’m sorry. I’m a maid, not a whore.” I acted the part of an indignant new feminist who was obviously saving herself for ‘the one’. 

“What does it matter? You’re already ruined. Do as I say.”

“I wear a collar, Sir.” I touched it with my left hand. “A collared maid does not have to give herself like that. The collar protects me. I belong to Mr Rowell.”

“Fuck Rowell.” I could see he was hard through his trousers. His bulge leaned to the right inside his crotch. Perhaps he had a thing for maid uniforms. Many men did. 

“It isn’t going to happen, Sir.”

“Really.” He drew a gun from under his jacket, from where I had already detected a slim shoulder holster. It was a small gun, an automatic, with probably six bullets in the magazine. He wasn’t wearing his holster as well as he could. I had already detected the slight bulge under his armpit. I stood there as he levelled the gun at my chest. “I could shoot you, you know. Just like that, and no one would reprimand me.”

“Mr Rowell would not be happy, Sir. He would have something to say about it.”

“I don’t care.”

“There has to be discipline, Sir. The Steel Worlds do not tolerate anarchy amongst their people.” I regarded the barrel calmly, though my heart was beating like mad and I had to fight back the fight or flea instincts that rose to the surface now. “I am an indentured maid. I belong to a man.”

“You’re a cool one, aren’t, you, Rachel?” he said, as he read my name tag. “A bit too cool for a mere maid. Aren’t you frightened?”

“Yes I am, but I value my virtue.”

“You’re already fucking ruined! You’re already a slut! Don’t pretend you’re chaste! Slut!”

“I am now, Sir. Since New Feminism opened my eyes. I regret my shameful indiscretion in the past. It was only the once, with one man, but I regret how shamefully I ruined myself.” Blah, blah, blah. It is what he would expect a real ‘feminist’ to say. “I can’t turn the clock back and take back that stupid decision. All I can do now is live my life the way I should have done before.”

“What do you want, Rachel?” He paced about me and pressed the barrel of the gun between my breasts. “You want to be a maid all your life?”

“No, Sir. All maids dream of better things.”

“Like what?”

“I dream of being lifted. Of being a red silk girl. Oh, I could never be a white silk. I know that, but a red silk girl… it is a possibility.”

“Barely one in a thousand maids become red silk girls.” He placed the barrel under my chin and unbuttoned the top button of my dress.

“I’ll scream, Sir.”

“Fuck it.” Stane drew the gun back and, sneering, did my top button up again. “You’re not worth a fucking bullet, you bitch.”

“As you say, Sir.” 

“I always get what I want, Rachel. In the end. Perhaps I’ll speak to Rowell. I’m sure he wants me to think well of him. He’ll send you to my bedroom if I want him to. Perhaps I’ll have you crawl to my bedroom with a whip between your teeth. If Rowell tells you to do that, you’ll do it, won’t you?”

“I’m not a whore, Sir. I’m an indentured maid.”

“And I’m a man who serves the Steel Worlds!” he looked angry now. “I can have whatever I want, or else what’s the fucking point of any of this!”

“You can’t have me, Sir. My collar protects me. There is a red silk girl here. You could ask Mr Montague.”

“She isn’t wearing a maid uniform.” Stane said that suddenly, without thinking. I smiled to myself. So it was the uniform, then? 

“You like the uniform, Sir?”

He stood there, realising he’d given away a fetish. He liked girls dressed as maids. “Yes, I do,” he said, quieter now. “It’s a very sexy look.” He cast his eyes at me again. 

“I understand, Sir. And I’m flattered.” I would rather he didn’t have a death wish against me. “But you can dress any girl in a uniform like this.”

“That’s…. that’s not the point.” He paused. “It’s not the same.”

“The same as what, Sir?”

“An actual maid. Who does the cleaning, and serves. Dressing another girl as a maid isn’t the same. It has to be a real maid.”

I understood a little now. His fetish went beyond the uniform itself. He wanted the master servant thing. With the uniform of course. “I’ll give you three hundred dollars,” he said at last.

“I’m not a whore, Sir.”

“Five hundred.”

“I’m not an expensive whore, either, Sir.” I stood there, and I could see that the prominent bulge in his trousers wasn’t going away. He probably felt a bit sore and frustrated by now. 

“Two thousand fucking dollars.”

“I’m a feminist, Sir. It’s not about the money.”

“I fucking want you!” He stood there, feeling helpless in the face of knowing he couldn’t simply take me without breaking a serious Kur taboo. Anarchy could not be permitted to prevail amongst men who otherwise were allowed to do more or less what they wanted to the rabble. There had to be discipline within the Kur circles. Wolves had to be kept in check by a system, and that system involved differing collars around women. The Kurii would happily provide Thane with all manner of prostitutes, of all colours and ages and sizes, but indentured maids could not be forced. The collar gave them protection. Rowell was different. I was indentured to him, but even there I could refuse to sleep with him, not that he had ever tried to do so. Few maids did refuse to sleep with their owners, of course, because they feared the thousand and one terrible things that might happen to them for displeasing their master, and also because they all secretly hoped for some form of advancement in life. A few maids had been known to end up as wives. One or two even found themselves lifted to be red silk girls, though rarely the red silks of the men they were contracted to as maids. Red silks were rare and it was the Kurii themselves who determined where they might go. 

“I can’t make you a red silk girl,” said Thane after a while. “It’s not in my power.” 

“I know, Sir.”

“Is there something else you want? Name it, and if I can give you it, then…”

I walked towards Stane, sensing a slight difference in the power now. I touched his arm with my left hand. “Perhaps you would like to sit down, Sir, and watch me clean for a while?”

“Yes…” Stane’s breathing grew strained. “Yes.”

I smiled. “I do need to clean this room. You can sit and watch, but only if you behave yourself, Sir. Are you going to behave yourself?”

“Yes…” Stane’s trouser bulge twitched. 

Interesting. He was going to ‘behave’. This was a different side to Stane than just now. I smoothed the twill fabric of my uniform against my thighs as he watched avidly. I paid little attention to him as I also adjusted the flow of my starched white apron. But I could sense his growing interest. 

“You can watch me while I work. Provided you behave yourself. But we don’t want any accidents, do we?”

“What?” he perhaps thought for a moment I was insinuating he might ejaculate in his pants.

“The gun, Sir. Please unload it. It’s dangerous. You can watch me clean when you’ve unloaded the gun.”

“All right.” 

I watched as he removed the clip and then ejected the round in the breach. He placed clip, bullet and gun on a small side table. 

“Sit down, Sir,” I said as I motioned towards the leather armchair. As he did so, I picked up a feather duster that lay nearby and I traced the feather tip across the right arm of the chair. I raised it again and, leaning slightly over him, dusted the other arm. “These chairs get very dusty,” I said. “Houses like this can be a dust trap.” The skirt of my uniform brushed the back of his hand as he gripped the arm rest. 

“Rachel…” he began, but I shushed him by touching his lips with the tip of my feather duster. 

“Behave,” I said simply. He remained still, which made me brave enough to go further. “You will do as the maid tells you, won’t you, Sir?” I gazed down at him as he nodded. I flicked my eyes at his crotch and frowned. A ‘tsk’ sound escaped my lips as I shook my head, but that seemed to excite him even more. He really had a thing for maids. And it went beyond the usual Master/Servant thing. I sensed Stane secretly longed for something else. 

And then I just dusted and cleaned. Dusted and cleaned around the large living room, while Jonathan Stane, one of the most powerful industrialists in the western world, sat watching me from his armchair, his eyes fixated on my cheap twill dress, black stockings, apron and cap. He watched my ass as I bent down and he wet his lips as I leaned forward at times, showing the swell of my breasts tightly confined by corset and bullet bra. And then I tried it. I was bending slightly, pretending to be oblivious to him, as I dusted a vase on a shelf, and then I made a thing of noticing him. My eyes narrowed slightly and I gazed up without moving my head, as if comprehending for the first time. “Are you watching me inappropriately, Mr Stane? Are you deriving some obscene pleasure from this?”

“Yes,” he said, slightly breathless with the words.

“Well stop it.” I gazed at him hard and drew myself up to my full height to gaze down at him in the armchair. “You should be ashamed of yourself, lusting secretly after the maid!”

He switched his eyes away, and I knew my risky gamble had paid off. “When I said you could watch, I didn’t mean like that. Look at you, Mr Stane.” I tapped his erection with my feather duster and saw his face redden. “How shameful! Stand up.”

To my relief he actually did so. I really did have him now. “Walk to the door, close it from this side, lock it, and then come back.” I watched as he did so, his breathing getting even more pronounced. “The maid is obviously going to have to tech you a lesson. We have work to do, and we can’t have men like you lusting after us from their armchairs. Take your trousers down and bend your body over the sofa.”

“I… I can’t…” said Stane. His mouth was dry and he trembled slightly.

“Oh yes you can! Do it!” I snapped. I went as far as to slap his thigh with my duster stick. And, fuck me, he did too. His belt came loose, his trousers went down and he whimpered slightly as he bent over the sofa arm. I pulled down his boxer shorts and bared his ass to view. His erection was stiff as a broom handle now that he was naked from his waist to his socks and shoes. I tapped his shaft with the feather duster and let him feel it as I ran it along the length of his cock. “Shameful!” I said again. “Disgusting.”

“I’m sorry…” he croaked. 

He almost certainly went to public school.

I picked up a clean cloth duster and wedged it in his mouth. “Bite down,” I ordered. He did so. And then, with the long handle end of the feather duster, I proceeded to whip him lightly, growing fiercer after the first few blows, watching his body jump to each blow. 

When I was finished I told him to stand in the corner and play with himself. “You can come in a handkerchief. I’ll allow you that. But I don’t want to see you while you do it. Show me when you’ve finished.” I sat down in the armchair and watched the most powerful industrialist in the United States shamble over to the corner with his trousers around his ankles and a handkerchief made of silk in his left hand. There was some soft voiced grunting and moaning as he ejaculated, out of sight, into the handkerchief. He came with an audible gasp. 

“Put it away in your pocket,” I said angrily as he then showed me the evidence in the sticky silk. “Pull your trousers up, and go,” I added. “You will go to your room and you will stay there until I call you down to dinner tonight. Understand?”

He couldn’t bring himself to say a single word as he left the living room.