The Chronicles Of Power

The alarm clock rang in the small room. With no windows, Tamara had no help from the morning sun. Waking felt like being dragged straight out of the deepest sleep. One hand slipped from beneath the thin blanket, fumbled for the lamp switch, and finally found it. A dim light filled the room before she swung her legs over the side of the bed. She sat there for a moment, waiting for her body to catch up. Then she slapped her cheeks a couple of times and recited the old pep chant from her rugby days. It still worked. Feeling a little more awake, she ran through the day’s likely schedule.

Ma’am was away. Tamara thought she was visiting her sister, or at least that was what she’d gathered. It made little difference. Sir would still expect breakfast, and she and her “colleagues” would eat before starting work. Then came lunch, followed by preparations for dinner. After six months in the kitchen, she almost felt like a professional chef. She had learned one seemingly impossible recipe after another. Things that had baffled her in the beginning had become routine.

As for the “other” duties around the house, she thought she’d handled them well enough. She had served Sir’s guests naked a few times. It hadn’t been much fun, but the tips were generous. Once, Sir had come into the kitchen and taken her from behind, just as he had during her first month in the house. Ma’am hadn’t been there that time, and the strange, exhilarating feeling she’d experienced the first time was gone. It had simply happened.

Even so, life here had turned out far better than she’d expected. She enjoyed the kitchen, slept well at night, and rarely worried about the next day. And catching sight of Ivan’s swinging cock almost every day gave her plenty to think about when she masturbated herself to sleep each night. She pictured herself in the middle of the orgy that ma’am had arranged some mointh ago. It had been a strange incident. Why had it been so important that she and Molly watched? And why had Ma’am kept staring at Tamara the whole time?

She dragged herself into the bathroom, shaved her head, took a quick shower, brushed her teeth, and got dressed. The biggest drawback to living here was that she ate too much and moved too little. The extra weight had crept up on her. She noticed it every time she pulled on her trousers or buttoned her bra. Her clothes were definitely tighter than they had been a few months ago. She smiled anyway. Life here wasn’t hard on her.

Someone knocked.

Just once.

She hurried to the door. If Stephen had to wait more than a few seconds, his eyes would flash with irritation. It wasn’t that Tamara was afraid of him, but there was something about Stephen she found deeply unsettling. She expected him to be standing there with the day’s schedule, recipes, and meal plans.

He was.

But he was carrying something else in his other hand.

A bundle.

It looked like clothes.

She thanked him, went into her room, and unfolded the schedule. She read it once, then frowned and read it again.

7:00 Instruct Molly in the kitchen. Prepare her for the day’s kitchen duties. Make breakfast. Begin lunch preparations.

8:00 Serve Sir breakfast. Clean the kitchen.

8:30 Breakfast.

9:00 Tennis with Sir.

10:30 Shower and rest.

After that followed an otdinary evening schedule.

She read the schedule a third time.

Tennis? With Sir?

Sir and Ma’am played tennis every single day. They had done so for thirty years. Whenever Ma’am was away, Sir usually went for a run instead. If Sir happened to be gone, Ma’am spent the hour working out with Ivan in the gym. This was different. Completely different.

She unfolded the bundle Stephen had brought her. Inside was a set of immaculate tennis clothes from an expensive brand. She already had sneakers, so everything else was there.

The match occupied her thoughts so completely that she forgot to snap at Molly in the kitchen for not understanding everything immediately. Oddly enough, yelling never seemed to help the girl. Whenever Tamara kept her patience, Molly worked with far more confidence and made far fewer mistakes. She’d have to remember that.

Sir was already rallying with himself when Tamara stepped onto the court at exactly nine o’clock. He waved cheerfully and pointed toward a racket leaning against a nearby table. She picked it up and took a few practice swings.

She had actually played tennis for about a year when she was ten or eleven, before rugby had taken over her life. She searched her memory for old lessons—keep your eye on the ball, move your feet, don’t swing too hard.

“Let’s warm up,” Sir called.

He floated an easy ball toward her. She returned it without much trouble. The next shot came harder. She barely managed to send it back over the net. Sir answered with a clean overhead smash that landed well beyond her reach.

He smiled.

“Good enough. We’ll play two sets. Lose one set, you take your clothes off. Lose both, you go down on the winner. That’s how Ma’am and I played for years.”

Tamara felt her confidence sink. He hadn’t invited her because he wanted a tennis partner. He wanted an happy ending.

Well.

Nothing to do but play.

The first set disappeared almost before she realized it had started. Fifteen minutes later, Sir had won it six games to love. She wasn’t completely outclassed. She won a handful of points and even forced him into a few longer rallies, but whenever he decided to raise the pace, the difference between them became obvious.

She removed her clothes. Sir allowed her to keep her shoes on.

The sun beat down relentlessly. It always seemed to be sunny here. She couldn’t understand how the lawns stayed so vividly green or how the flowerbeds continued bursting with color. Everything should have been scorched brown by now. Sometimes the estate felt less like a home than a place from a fairy tale.

Running naked across the court was another matter. Her breasts bounced with every stride as she chased Sir’s shots, and before long the irritation began to build. She hated feeling awkward in her own body. Then something shifted. The annoyance sharpened her concentration instead of distracting her. She hit harder. Moved faster. The best rugby she’d ever played had always come when she was furious, and the same thing happened now.

Sir suddenly had to work for his points. He found himself sprinting after balls he hadn’t expected to chase, and by the time the score reached five games to love in the second set, Tamara finally cracked one serve straight past him for an ace. Five-one. She couldn’t help smiling.

Sir won the final game without much trouble and took the match.

He was in excellent spirits afterward. They shook hands across the net, and he thanked her for a good match. Together they walked over to the white lounge chairs where he and Ma’am relaxed every day after playing. Sir settled comfortably into his seat while Ivan appeared, almost as if on cue, carrying fresh towels and glasses of water.

Tamara noticed, with quiet satisfaction, that Ivan looked at her more than once.

Sir casually tugged down the waistband of his shorts and exposed himself. It struck Tamara that, despite having had sex with him twice, this was actually the first time she’d really seen his cock. It looked perfectly ordinary.

She knelt in front of him and let her tongue travel slowly along the shaft while Sir stroked her head. Then she took him into her mouth, circling the tip with slow, deliberate movements of her tongue before beginning to suck him while stroking him with her hand.

He tasted of sweat—not stale sweat, but the clean saltiness left behind after exercise.

It didn’t take him long.

He climaxed into her mouth.

She swallowed.

Tamara expected either to remain standing beside him naked or to be sent straight back to the kitchen. Instead, Sir surprised her.

“Get dressed,” he said.

She did.

Then he nodded toward Ma’am’s chair.

“Sit.”

He handed her a towel, poured her a glass of water, and asked her to tell him about her life.

Ma’am would be away for the rest of the week.

There were still four matches left to play.

On the second day, Tamara started getting a feel for the court. Her positioning improved, and she was beginning to understand how much pace she could put on the ball without losing control. Sir won, six-one, six-two. Then came the usual routine: she undressed, went down on him, and afterward they sat together and talked.

By the third day, she had improved again. The score was six-two, six-two, but the match was much closer than it looked. Most of the games went to deuce, and Sir had to work hard for nearly every point. It was becoming obvious that Tamara had once been an elite athlete. Her timing, coordination, and natural feel for the ball were things that couldn’t be taught.

The fourth day brought a slight setback. She never quite settled into the match, and Sir won six-love, six-one. During their conversation afterward, he even asked whether something was bothering her. She assured him she was fine.

When the fifth and final match arrived, Ma’am was due back around dinner. To her own surprise, Tamara found the thought a little disappointing. The tennis had been a welcome break from the routine. Having to suck Sir’s cock after every match wasn’t exactly the highlight of her day, but she kept reminding herself of the money and of the gym she intended to build one day.

A cool breeze drifted across the court that morning. She had slept well, her legs felt fresh, and she could feel the familiar confidence of competition returning.

Sir took the opening set, six-three, but every game had been close. Tamara stripped off her clothes as agreed, and they changed ends. Now the wind was at her back, the sun was in Sir’s eyes, and over the past few days she had noticed something else: whenever he began to tire, his forehand drifted slightly to the left. She smiled to herself. Perfect.

They stayed level throughout the second set until it reached a tiebreak. Sir looked completely focused, but Tamara felt something different taking over. She wasn’t standing on a tennis court anymore. She was back on a rugby field, playing in a championship final. She was the eightman. She was the captain. She was Tamara King.

She won the set.

Sir’s final shot floated long, landing harmlessly beyond the baseline. Tamara dropped to her knees and let out the same victory roar she had screamed after winning rugby finals years before. Her racket spun high into the air before crashing back onto the grass.

Only then did she realize what she’d done.

She looked across the net, almost afraid to meet Sir’s eyes. Had she gone too far?

Instead, he was beaming.

He crossed the court, clapped her warmly on the shoulder, congratulated her on the win, pulled her back to her feet, and almost dragged her toward the lounge chairs.

As Ivan poured ice-cold water into Tamara’s glass, Sir calmly removed the rest of his clothes.

“Rules are rules,” he said with an amused smile.

Naked and still damp with sweat, he settled into his chair and immediately began asking Tamara about her technique, what adjustments she had made during the match, and how she had figured out his patterns. Before long, it felt less like a conversation between master and servant than two athletes dissecting a game they both enjoyed. Ivan opened the large parasol above them and quietly dried them both with fresh towels.

Sir turned toward Tamara, about to continue the conversation, when his eyes suddenly shifted past her shoulder. He froze.

Tamara turned around.

Ma’am stood only a few yards away.

Her face was impossible to read.

“Mhm?”

That single sound was all she directed at Sir.

He cheerfully explained their arrangement and asked why she’d returned earlier than expected.

She ignored the question.

Instead, she looked at Tamara.

“So,” she said evenly, “you’re quite the tennis player. I wasn’t expecting that.”

“It was mostly luck, Ma’am. Sir had the sun in his eyes.”

Tamara tried to sound cheerful and obedient at the same time, though she didn’t like where this was heading.

“I think I’ll hit a few balls at Tamara. Up you get.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

They walked onto opposite sides of the court. Tamara remained naked while Ma’am kept on her light luncheon dress and broad-brimmed hat. As Tamara reached for her racket, Ma’am laughed.

“No, dear. Not like that.”

Tamara carefully placed the racket back on the ground.

“Hands behind your back. Feet together.”

She clenched her jaw and obeyed.

The first serve slammed into her right thigh. The second struck her stomach. The third caught her shoulder. The fourth crashed into her left breast. The fifth clipped her chin. The sixth hit her square between the legs.

Ma’am still had a dozen balls left in the basket.

Tamara refused to let so much as a flicker of pain show on her face. She swallowed it, letting it harden into anger instead.

Out of the corner of her eye she glanced toward Sir.

He stood there naked, looking miserable.

Behind him, Ivan was crouching beside the discarded trousers, quietly searching through the pockets. Catching Tamara’s eye, he pressed a finger to his lips and gave her a quick wink.

The next ball struck exactly the same spot on her breast as before.

The pain was blinding.