Chapter 5 -- Rebecca's Secret
3 months passed after Becky's taming.
To me, the name Becky was redolent of the Chav slut that I had met in front of her flat with her friends. I called her Rebecca from then on, an altogether classier name, and to my mind, the formality of the name represented our formal relationship as Domine and Submissive.
During this period, Rebecca, Michelle and I engaged in an all consuming game of master and slaves; where they sated my plentiful appetites; where I used and abused their bodies at will; and where I looked on as my devotees pleasured themselves and each other.
Occasionally, when Rebecca had been particularly attentive to me, I would let her dominate Michelle, who seemed to gorge on the depravity by deliberately infuriating Rebecca, and rushing to get the phallic whip before she was even commanded to, which of course would anger Rebecca more.
Rebecca would take out the humiliation of her submission on her submissive. She would be even more ferocious than before, thrashing Michelle with the whip at the smallest intransigence or misdemeanour; ravaging her anally with the handle; walking over her with her dirty white stilettos and forcing her to suck her dirty toes clean.
During this period, they dispensed of their Chavvy friends, and I gave them money for decent clothing, food and drink so they wouldn't have to rely on casual prostitution to pay their way.
It was an exciting period.
However, as is the way with people like me, I began to tire of it, and realised that a major part of their attraction to me was their low class lifestyle, which I was busy trying to change. The challenge was evaporating; we had got ourselves into a routine, an unusual routine, but a routine nonetheless.
But the routine was soon to change.
One evening, when I had told my wife, Sarah, that I would be working late, and Michelle was in her bed with a cold; I lay in Rebecca's bed in a post coital stupor. Her back was cradled spoon-like within my body; my protective arms smothered her tiny form.
"Who do you support?" she said, out of the blue.
"West Ham, for my sins," I mumbled.
"Scum," was the automatic reply, "there's only one team in London and that's Millwall".
I took the opportunity to scratch her back viciously, leaving a harsh red mark: she winced satisfyingly.
"My grand-dad supports West Ham, though. You should go to a match with him."
"Why should I want to do that? I asked, incredulously, wondering what on earth I would have in common with an old man, whose grand-daughter I was sleeping with. She had mentioned her grandparents before, as they were her only relatives; her father, a soldier, had been killed in the first Iraq war, and her mother had died of a drugs overdose when she was young.
"Well, he's interesting... you'll find you will have a lot to talk about," she said. There was caution in her voice, a certain hesitancy, as if she had raised the topic after some reflection. Alarm bells rang in my mind, but I was too tired to question her further. We dozed and I thought nothing of it.
*****
A few days later, Rebecca raised the subject again on the phone.
"Grand-dad is going to the game this Saturday. He's got 2 tickets and has invited you to go."
"Why would he want to go to the game with a total stranger," I asked, somewhat flummoxed at Rebecca's insistence on this.
"He wants to meet you. He is interested in you. You will have lots to talk about," she said, using the same sly voice from our last time in bed.
"Why would he want to meet me? What does he know about me?" I asked, getting worried where this was going.
"Oh for 'eavens sakes, don't worry. He knows about us, that's all," was her exasperated reply.
"What! You've told him you are sleeping with a 45 year old man!
"Don't worry. He's cool about it. It's not a problem."
*****
I guess I was intrigued to meet this man who was happy for his grand-daughter sleep with older men. I sensed there was something darker behind it. And so I met Peter outside the front gates at Upton Park for the game against Manchester City.
He was a trim, slender man. Good features, totally bald, and clean shaven; I knew he was 65, but he looked 55. His appearance surprised me: he didn't fit the stereotype of a working class West Ham supporter.
We shook hands and had a drink at the "Boleyn" pub, before enduring our team's inevitable 3-1 drubbing.
We got on well and, after the game, went to a quieter pub further up Green Street for a chat.
"So," he said, after taking a sip of London Pride, "you're fucking my grand-daughter."
It was a statement, not a question, but I was sort of prepared for it, albeit not in so abrupt a fashion, so I looked him in the eye and said, "yes."
He smiled, and said, "yeah, she is good isn't she? She's the best."
"And how would you know that?" I asked, indignantly, but suspecting the answer.
"Because... I taught her everything she knows," he smiled again, with remarkable assurance. "In fact, you and I have one thing in common. We are the only ones who have subdued her... who can control her."
So I had found another kindred spirit. A competitor or a partner? I awaited the suggestion that was sure to come. I was not fazed at all by the incestuous relationship between Rebecca and Peter. On the contrary, I was stimulated, turned on by the depravity. He did not know it, but I would accept anything he was about to suggest.
"And what does Eleanor think of your relationship with Rebecca?" I probed, disingenuously. Eleanor was his wife.
"Oh... she plays her part too," he smiled again.
*****
It was Peter's birthday the following Thursday, and we agreed to meet up for a celebration meal at a Beefeater just outside Maidstone. He would bring Eleanor and both Rebecca and Michelle would be there.
It was the Christmas season, and it was easy for me to tell Sarah that I would be very late at a client party. I insisted that the girls dress up for the occasion, with clothes that I had bought them. When I picked them up, they wore short, black cocktail dresses, black stockings and black high heels.
Michelle looked faintly ridiculous in her dress, her bulges showing here and there. She wore her bright red lipstick, and the effect was of a fat tart on the pull. I told her to wear her jewelled dog collar. She looked at me pleadingly, knowing that she would be humiliated by other people on the estate and the restaurant seeing her look so... into bondage.
I didn't care. She was my whore and plaything, and I wanted her to look like that.
Rebecca, of course, looked great in the tight dress. She had her blonde hair piled up as usual and her omnipresent hoops. Once a Chav, always a Chav, I thought.
We got to the Beefeater first, and soon after Peter and Eleanor arrived.
He was dapper in a suit and tie. Eleanor (I noticed he did not call her Ellie or some other short name) could have been an older version of Rebecca, the familial resemblance was uncanny. She was petite with short, silver hair, and with the same hard-pretty face that Rebecca had. Of course, she had lines on her face, and dentures and looked her age, but she was in very good shape. She wore a fur that covered her down to her nylon covered knees, and she kept it on presumably to keep warm having come in from the cold.
Peter immediately took control, organised our seating in our private booth; he would be in between Michelle and Rebecca, and I would sit next to Eleanor on the other side of the table.
During the course of the meal, Eleanor appeared demure and quiet, and I sensed which part she had to play in their private lives.
By the end of the meal, we had all had a few drinks, were pleasantly relaxed and the women a little bit tipsy. I noted that Peter's hands frequently went under the table, and I sensed he was groping both the girls' legs.
"So, what do you think of my wife?" Peter eventually said.
I looked at her. She looked back at me, a curious half smiling, half apprehensive look on her face; it was the look of a slave wondering who she had been sold to in the Roman forum.
"She is a very pleasant and attractive woman, Peter, you are a lucky man." I replied, unperturbed by the question.
"Do you want to fuck her?" He asked, as if it was the most normal question in the world.
"Yes."
"Why don't you test the goods... now," he suggested. "Reach into her coat. See what is on offer," he smiled his usual, confident smile.
Amused, I did as he recommended. I discreetly reached down and caressed her slim ankle, then moved up her nylon clad leg into the fur coat. I got to her stocking top, found the suspender, and then her skinny bare thigh. What? Where was the dress? I moved further up her thigh. And established there was no dress!
Eleanor had been well trained. As I guided my hand towards her crotch, she opened her legs, and, another surprise, my fingers touched her shaven mound of venus, unclad by panties. I smiled and ventured into her vagina and felt that it was well lubricated. I brushed over her clitoris, and stimulated it. It brought forth a very slight murmur from Eleanor.
I moved my hand further upward; the few folds of skin over the belly were to be expected, and then, this time I was unsurprised by the feel of her tiny, slightly droopy breasts, unfettered by a bra, her nipples were small but rock hard. I took my hand away, and sniffed her earthly smell.
"Excellent," I said, having completed my examination.
