AllFreeNovel
Share Us
There are two holes in the top part of the frilly white apron, exposing her perfect, perky breasts, tipped with dark, dusky nipples. I prefer the rose pink of Camille’s nipples, an unwelcome memory that forces its way into my consciousness.
I can’t even fucking look at a woman without thinking of Camille.Every woman I’ve ever fucked, every woman I’ve ever beaten, is Camille in my head. I swallow the taste of bitterness and let my eyes rove over her body.
The flared-out skirt of the maid’s outfit is so short it exposes her shaved pussy. She’s stunningly beautiful. Big brown doe eyes, high cheekbones. Looks to be in her early twenties. She’s wearing a thin silver collar with blinking lights on it. I can’t see any kind of hinge or latch on it.
My cock hardens. I’m sure it’s some kind of shock collar. I love the idea of putting a shock collar on a woman. God, that’s fucking hot.
Camille in a shock collar, naked, crawling to me… screaming as I push the button again and again.
She walks up to me and bows her head submissively, then sinks to her knees. “Good morning, Sir. Welcome. Breakfast will be served in half an hour. May I help you shower, or serve your needs in any way?”
That’s an interesting way to be greeted after a kidnapping. “No, thanks,” I say.
She flicks me a fearful glance. “Have I displeased you in any way, Sir?” she asks me, and I see the sheer terror in her eyes.
I shake my head. Yes, she’s being served up to me on a platter and her fear is an enormous turn-on, but it doesn’t feel right somehow. Maybe because it’s too easy. Maybe because it’s not Camille. Perhaps a little bit of both. “Nope, I just prefer selecting my own women.”
“Of course, Sir.” Her eyes flash with relief. Then she climbs to her feet and stands there awkwardly, staring at the ground.
“What?” I snap.
“Am I dismissed, Sir?” she asks fearfully.
“Yes, you are dismissed.”
She scurries out, eyes on the ground.
Someone has done an admirable job of training her, I’ll say that.
Fresh clothes in my size lie across the back of a chair. Ballin Manchester khaki slacks with cuffed ankles, white polo shirt, and socks, and Sid Mashburn tan suede Italian penny loafers on the floor.
I take a quick shower, then dress. When I leave my room, she’s waiting for me just outside the doorway, hands clasped together, eyes still downcast. She leads me down a long hallway lined with framed oil portraits of men who look just like the old me. The portraits go back at least a couple of hundred years, if the style is any indication. The men all have a mean gleam in their eyes and a twist of cruelty to their mouths.
We come to a room flooded with sunlight. A long mahogany table that could easily seat a dozen is set with silver bowls resting on a white lace tablecloth. Floor-to-ceiling glassed doors open out onto a patio and reveal an endless spread of magnificent gardens beyond it.
The man sitting at the head of the table watches me as I come in. He’s burly and broad-shouldered, in his fifties. His wavy dark hair is shot through with silver. I imagine that if my father hadn’t erased his natural features, he’d look very much like this man. Two other men in their twenties are present, and their facial features, like the older man’s, reveal them to be related to me. They’re all dressed like country gentlemen. Artemis has a blue and red bowtie—very Southern. The man sitting to his right wears pastel blue slacks and a blue oxford shirt with wide blue stripes. The man to his left is wearing a red, yellow, and blue checked chambray shirt and ocher trousers.
Like my family, they’re very conscious of quality and appearances.
The smell of coffee and sizzling bacon greets me as I enter the room. The woman sneaks one desperate glance at the platters of food on the table in a way that tells me she’s very hungry, but she won’t be allowed to eat until she’s given permission. She hurries over and kneels by the older man’s feet on the floor under the table, and he props his feet up on her back. I’ve got a perfect view of her exposed ass and pussy, yet I find myself looking away.
“Sit,” the older man says in a deep, booming voice. He’s got the air of a man used to having his orders obeyed instantly and fearfully. He points at an empty seat, and I take it, moving at a deliberate pace—not so slowly that I’m being openly disrespectful but not jumping at his orders either.
Two other women, also wearing slutty maid’s outfits and the same kind of blinking silver collars, hurry to serve us food. The misery in their eyes tells me they’re not here by choice. A redhead serves the man on his right, and the blonde attends to me. It’s a little distracting having someone’s tits dangle in my face as they serve me, but I’ve got to admit, her wretched expression adds a sweet flavor to the coffee as I sip it.
There’s a moment of silence as their gaze wanders over my face, and I feel that angry clench in my chest again. My face, my birthright, has been stolen from me.
“I’d like the name of his plastic surgeon,” the man in chambray shirt says with mild amusement. He has the same Southern honeyed accent as Robert.
“Barbaric,” the man in the blue slacks says as if I wasn’t sitting a few feet away from him. “To look like a Franklin is an honor. He’s been carved up like a suckling pig.”
The man nods at me. “Good morning. Welcome to Eternal Glory. This is our family estate. My name is Artemis. Your grandfather Lenin was my uncle. This is my son Paxton”—he nods at the man who just called me barbaric, whose expression is sullen and suspicious—“and this is my nephew, Solomon.” His voice, like Robert’s, has the soft tones of a native Southerner, but there’s something harder underneath.
“You could have just called me on the phone and invited me here, without all the dramatics,” I say with mild annoyance. I wanted to get to know my family, but ever since I was dragged off to that psychiatric facility when I was fifteen, I bristle at the idea of being taken anywhere without my consent.
“I wanted to make a point.” He smiles coldly. The point being, he can find me anywhere and have me whisked to his estate, so I’d better play nice and not speak out of turn. “We’ll talk after breakfast and… the entertainment.”
There’s no point in arguing, so I dig into the pancakes that the redhead sets in front of me. Then I help myself to bacon from a silver tray. I also try some grits, which I know are classic Southern fare. I find them disgusting, but refrain from spitting them out. We’re silent for a couple of minutes as we eat, and then Artemis wipes his mouth with a napkin and looks at me.
