The Chronicles Of Power

About a week after Lucy's orgasm in front of everyone, Tamara had settled into the rhythm of life in the house.

Every morning, Stephen delivered a meticulous schedule. Every hour, every location, everything they were expected to bring, and where they were supposed to go afterward was laid out in precise detail. Nothing was left to chance.

Tamara couldn't help smiling. Ma'am must spend hours putting these schedules together every evening. She really did love being in control.

As far as Tamara was concerned, though, her first week had been little more than ordinary housekeeping. Nothing unusual. She had no idea what the others had been put through, and honestly, she didn't care.

Stay away from crazy white people.

It was advice her mother had given her countless times over the years, and it seemed more relevant than ever.

The kitchen, like everything else in the house, was extravagantly oversized. Massive griddles, multiple ovens, enough pots and pans to feed an entire village—everything gleamed with polished stainless steel. It looked more like the kitchen of a high-end restaurant than a private home.

Tamara had no idea what half the equipment was even for.

Fortunately, only a small section of the kitchen was used for everyday cooking, and that part felt reassuringly normal. She was often assigned kitchen duty, much to her delight. She liked the warmth, the smell of food cooking, the satisfaction of following recipes while keeping several pots simmering at once.

Best of all, she was usually left alone.

It gave her time to think.

Some things about the house were worse than she'd imagined. Others had turned out to be far better than she'd feared.

She had pictured herself wearing one of those ridiculous French maid outfits, complete with a white lace apron and a tiny cap. Instead, the everyday uniform consisted of a black turtleneck, a black skirt, a wrist watch and black sneakers. The formal version was cut the same way, only made from finer, more luxurious fabrics.

They had even allowed her to keep her own underwear.

It was the only thing from her suitcase she had been permitted to keep.

She thought the uniform suited her rather well. Not quite as well as it suited little Molly, perhaps, but certainly better than it suited that creature Lucy.

Tamara shuddered at the thought of her.

Still, no one wore the clothes better—or looked better without them—than Ivan.

She couldn't stop herself from watching his cock sway as he walked through the house. She saw it whenever she closed her eyes. At night, she dreamed it was she lying on the sofa beneath his gentle hands...

...while Lucy was the one left standing nearby, watching and longing.

She couldn't make sense of her thoughts.

She was fairly certain she was a lesbian. She had never felt any attraction to men. Then again, when she really thought about it, she had never been attracted to women either.

Rugby had been her whole life from the age of twelve until a year ago. She loved everything about it—the competition, the sweat, the mud, the camaraderie. During her final years she had played number eight and captained the team, becoming its unquestioned leader. But time and countless hard hits had finally caught up with her. She was getting slower, and every decision took just a fraction of a second longer to make. With a heavy heart, she had known it was time to step away.

She smiled to herself.

Funny how memory worked. All she remembered now were the matches and the cheering crowds. The real work—the real rugby—had happened between the games. No matter how she felt, physically or mentally, she had gone to the gym every single day. Twice a day. It hadn't mattered whether it was Christmas Eve or her mother's funeral. She had been there. She had pushed both her body and her mind to their limits.

Compared to that, this year would be child's play. Nothing they could put her through would come close to what she had willingly done to herself. The money she earned would go toward making her new dream a reality. She wanted to open a gym—a gym for young women, where they could become strong on their own terms. One year of this nonsense would be worth it.

She gave her head a small shake.

Enough of that. She couldn't stand there daydreaming when Ma'am and Sir were due for lunch in exactly half an hour.

On the counter in front of her sat a bowl of blini batter, white Alba truffle, browned butter infused with champagne, and four tiny quail eggs. She still had to slice the carrots, poach them, boil the eggs, and fry the blinis, but she'd finish in plenty of time.

Lunch for her fellow servants had already been taken care of.

Cheese sandwiches.

The hierarchy was always on display.

Click.

Click.

Click.

The unmistakable sound of Ma'am's heels echoed behind her.

She drifted into the kitchen like a spring breeze, wearing a simple Chanel dress and a ridiculously oversized hat. A champagne flute rested casually in her hand as she leaned back against the work counter.

"Oh, Tamara, what a joy it is to see you in the kitchen. We really must say how delighted we are with your work."

Tamara wasn't sure whether she was expected to thank her or curtsy, so she ended up doing something halfway between the two. Ma'am either didn't notice or didn't care. She carried on talking about their previous chef and how utterly incompetent he had been. At one point, she mentioned that he'd actually used cultured cream instead of smetana. Ma'am laughed heartily and laid a hand on Tamara's arm, as if the two of them were united in their contempt for such an unforgivable blunder.

Tamara had no idea whether she was supposed to keep cooking or simply listen. Ma'am continued to chatter, now explaining how the carrots had been grown by an elderly woman on the other side of the island and how Stephen had somehow managed to buy them at an incredible price. Tamara stood there with a carrot in one hand and a knife in the other, completely unsure what she was meant to do as the seconds ticked away.

Then she sensed someone behind her.

She glanced over her shoulder and found Sir standing only inches away. How had she not noticed him? On the rugby field she'd always known exactly where everyone was—teammates and opponents alike. It had been her sixth sense.

She felt Sir's hand settle on the back of her neck. His grip was firm without being painful, and he slowly bent her forward. She felt the bowl of blini batter tip over as her breasts sank into the cold mixture. Beneath her stomach, the quail eggs burst one after another, blending into the browned butter.

Then he let go.

Tamara remained where she was, frozen, her eyes wide.

Ma'am continued talking as though nothing had happened. Tamara thought she was discussing the table setting. Or something. Every now and then she managed a quiet, "Yes, Ma'am," or, "Of course, Ma'am," while still lying there.

She felt Sir slowly pulling up her skirt.

"...though, really, perhaps the smaller spoons are better..."

Her panties were tugged down. Cool air brushed against her between the legs, leaving her completely exposed. She felt one finger slide inside her, then two, then three. He began fingering her.

"...and some people insist the sauce for asparagus should be served cold. Have you ever heard anything so ridiculous?"

Tamara struggled to make sense of what was happening. She was lying in a mess of ruined food worth more than she spent on groceries in a week, a knife still clutched in one hand and a carrot in the other. She answered Ma'am's questions as politely as she could while Sir's fingers worked inside her. She pictured Ivan, and she felt herself growing wetter and wetter.

His hand slipped out of her, and she heard him unfasten his pants.

"...and then, of course, it rained after all, just as I said it would."

She felt a glob of spit land against her anus, followed by the pressure of his thumb. Then came his cock, driving into her cunt in one hard thrust.

"...and poor Stephen was left standing there with the bucket..."

He fucked her hard, every thrust leaving the chaos beneath her even worse than before. She closed her eyes and imagined it was Ivan behind her. Gradually, she disappeared into herself.

What was this?

A demonstration of power? Were they trying to make sure she understood her place?

She ought to have been furious.

Instead...

...it felt unbelievably good.

It was absurd. John had increased his pace without sacrificing any force. It was relentless, rough fucking. Somewhere in the background she could still hear Ma'am talking, but her entire world had narrowed to John's cock driving into her again and again. His thumb pressed deeper whenever he withdrew, only to ease back as he thrust forward once more. Thump in anus, cock in pussy.

She could feel herself approaching orgasm.

Her hips began moving back against him of their own accord. She assumed she was moaning loudly by now.

She was so close.

The carrot snapped in her hand.

Then, without warning, he pulled out.

For one desperate instant she almost cried out for him to continue, but caught herself at the very last moment.

Sir came across her backside without making a sound.

He wiped himself on her skirt, calmly buttoned his pants, then took hold of the back of her neck and pulled her upright before walking away.

Tamara remained where she was, breathing hard, her skin burning with an orgasm left agonizingly unfinished. Egg and batter dripped from her breasts and stomach, while John's semen trickled down the back of her thighs.

Slowly, she turned toward Ma'am.

Ma'am simply smiled.

"Ten minutes until lunch is served. I certainly hope you've changed your sweater by then. You look absolutely filthy."

With that, she swept out of the kitchen, leaving Tamara standing there, trying to slow her racing heartbeat.

Between her legs, she could still feel herself wet with desire.