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.
*****
