The Inferior

Chapter-Three

Chapter-Three

The “Master”

For the third time that week, Bernard Lambert found himself waking to the sound of his own screams.

The fact it was still only Tuesday hardly offering itself as a reassurance.

Nor did the fact he came awake in the surroundings of his own study. The brown leather of the comfy sofa upon which he was taking his usual afternoon catnap, clammy against the skin of his bare forearms. Neither time, place, nor sofa, doing anything to lessen his concern for experiencing such dreams at all.

By way of confirmation, his hands went to his groin; relief at what he found there joined by a frantic banging which, though startling, at least hastened a full return to the land of the living.

And, more crucially: the intact.

“Master Lambert?” came the cry. “Is everything as it should be?”

There was no mistaking the deference in the heavily accented voice and old-fashioned English usage. Both, he considered, chiming nicely with the anachronistic form of address she had only recently started using when speaking to him. A form of address that was yet more evidence of the respect in which she held him and from which he took so much pleasure - despite the increasingly disturbing nature of his dreams in her regard.

Respect and a form of address that went a long way towards restoring his self-esteem after his recent setbacks; while, at the same time, reassuring him the status quo continued to hold sway – despite the worrying nature of the new fixation holding his subconscious in its grip.

That it was a somewhat recidivist and despised status quo –dead and buried with the British Raj some three-quarters of a century ago- not preventing his self-congratulation for having revived the tradition in his own home. The achievement of such a rebirth in a new; “Politically correct” and enlightened, millennium lessening his self-approbation not a penny piece.

“Anya?” he had asked her; shortly after she had started using the honorific. “Why are you suddenly addressing me in such an old-fashioned way?”

Still in her saris at the time –and, consequently, of no interest to him- his housekeeper had surprised him with the answer that, unbeknownst to him, she and Rajiv had pre-agreed should such a question be asked. The change that would ensure the surprisingly magnetic pull of his eyes towards the powerful and shapely legs with the pronounced calf-muscles -legs she had not seen fit to reveal until then- still some weeks in the future.

That subsequent attraction one that had demeaned him as much upon first sight as it did now. It being an attraction he found increasingly troubling. As if the swapping of sari covered bare legs and sandals for pantyhose and heels; combined with his reaction to the change; made her seem a different person in his eyes.

“Because you are a man of substance and it is deserved, Master,” she had answered him, delivering the untruth without a trace of the self-consciousness normally guaranteed to betray liars with a limited talent for the ways of deceit.

There being no trace, either, of the amusement she had taken from his obvious delight in such outrageous and fraudulent flattery.

Going on to flatter him still further when she saw her initial success:

“I have been here almost six months now,” she continued, “and you have proved yourself thoroughly deserving of your position in the world. Firm but fair. In my country there is no shame in acknowledging such a worthy man as ‘Master’.”

Then, as the script she had devised with her mentor demanded, her look had become troubled.

“However,” she said, expression still thoughtful; “if by addressing you in such a way I cause you embarrassment, I will use a different…”

“No, no!” he had disabused her. Swiftly. “I’m all for tradition. If that’s how you wish to address me then so be it.”

And so it was. As Rajiv had assured her it would go; so had it gone. Her “Master” and his already inflated ego -puffed up further every time she addressed him in such a way- being groomed for what would come later.

Back in the moment, though, the man himself wondered what his servant would think of her “Worthy” Master were she to divine, somehow, the contents of his dreams. Acknowledging thanks as he did so -to whomever atheists acknowledged such things- that mind reading was not included in her seemingly endless array of domestic talents.

“Master Lambert?” came the cry a second time; a double reassurance he was back with the living as the door flew open and she stepped inside; expression a mixture of curiosity for a room she was entering for the first time and feigned concern for the man it contained.

“I’m fine, thank you, Anya,” he told her, clearing his throat mid-sentence as the unlikely leading-lady of his recent dreams came towards him – clad, coincidentally, in the self-same outfit he had pictured her in as she had gone about destroying his testicles.

Adopting a critical expression intended to let his servant know he wasn’t happy she had entered his “inner-sanctum” at all; Lambert pushed the imagery to one side. It was a domestic incursion –despite the mitigating circumstances- he found extremely annoying. He had, after all, explained at length, from the commencement of her employment with him, that his study was “Off-limits”.

And at all times.

He could only hope the boldness of her intrusion was not some statement of emancipation to go with the English fashions replacing the discarded saris and traditional Indian costume she had worn on first taking up employment in his home.

An adoption of anglicised dress that had disturbed him for some reason.

A change -though her attitude towards him was no less deferential- that made her seem, somehow, less… He groped for the word best able to convey his meaning and found it…

Submissive.

The above being a quality in a woman he had always found extremely pleasing.

“I heard you scream out, she told him,” aware of his discomfort – even if that discomfort was not acute enough to prevent him stealing glances at her hosed legs and full breasts. Nor her from noticing that -though the interest he seemed to take in her body below the neck was, if anything, growing more pronounced- her face, as per usual, remained neglected.

“Nothing to worry about,” he assured her, a little tetchily; irritated at her persistence and drawing himself up authoritatively; snatching an eyeful of her, somewhat: “School-teacherly”, legs as he did so. That they were ever so slightly bowed making them seem, somehow, more… powerful. These being, he recalled, the same legs and feet he had seen above him not seconds before as they stomped his testicles to mush and went about supplying his dream the ultimate terror.

“I was just acting out a scene from the new book,” he lied, unable to prevent the catch in his voice her presence inspired. His growing preoccupation one he was at a loss to explain to himself. An interest in his horse-faced housekeeper stemming from the very moment she had decided to shed the costume native to her homeland and wear the more familiar designs and fabrics of his own.

Not to mention the absence of a woman in his life for the first period of any real duration he could recall.

“You can continue with whatever you were doing, and allow me to get on now,” he told her, manner made terse by recent memory. Eyes, even as he dismissed her, wandering down to the full breasts he could see straining against her shirt and imagining them unfettered.

In truth, the nature, frequency and intensity of his thoughts in her regard were becoming a real worry. No matter that s****l fantasies were as everyday and run of the mill to him as they were to any other man. After all, the odd dream concerning the same person was certainly nothing to be concerned about.

But this was different.

Not only were the dreams and unbidden images becoming more vivid; but their capacity to disturb seemed to be multiplying exponentially also.

“Dreams”, that left him mystified as to their source; as well as mortified to admit –given his horror at their content- the excitement he took from them.

Though by far his biggest concern in their regard was the identity of the girl taking centre stage as they played out.

Being totally candid, and without wishing to sound harsh, he had told himself -and as good as she had proved herself at the menial chores for which he had hired her- she was, when it came down to it, no more than an ugly and badly educated Indian girl from a low caste background. What she was now, he had assured himself, was all she would ever be. Single or married –especially the latter- what she did for him now was what she would do for others throughout the remainder of her life.

“I am making tea, Master,” she informed him by way of corroboration, making no impression on his preoccupation.

So why,” he told himself, if she was so easily dismissed, was the girl having such an effect upon him – her image popping into his head at any time or place? Why, at any moment, would he picture the two of them in situations revealing her in any number of erotic positions and poses as they interacted with each other?

And why, more worryingly, were these “Interactions” becoming so…

There was no other word for it.

“Weird.”

Though he had always enjoyed being top-dog, both physically and domestically, in his relationships with women it had always been more a case of vanilla-with-edge; rather than the more blatant b**m scenes of strong masters and subservient women depicted on his computer, Scenes he knew –no matter how appealing he found them- he would never indulge in.

So, that being the case; yet to be indulged tastes running in this direction; why was it that every time she invaded his sleep it was he, Bernard Lambert, her employer and “Master”, who was designated the unenviable role of second-class citizen?

And why, if these “Scenes” were reserved for his sleep, was he picturing one now?