I Own Aimee

Peppermint Chapter 3

After a couple of false starts, here is the third chapter in the Peppermint series. Text messages sent from Deborah and Aimee to me are in italic type; messages from my phone to either woman are displayed in bold.

I'd driven home after what felt like a long day in work; nothing unusual had happened, but a day spent surrounded by machine noise, low quality artificial lighting and people who felt it their mission to unpick me had left me feeling tired and unfulfilled. Working in an engineering works has its advantages; when I am operating my lathe I do so with my ear defenders on. This protects both my hearing and my sanity. What doesn't do wonders for my sanity is when, usually at break times, I hear my fellow factory workers gossiping about their relationships, each other, or, as occasionally happens, as it did that day, about me.

I'd been sitting on my own, reading my newspaper and eating my lunch, minding my own business as I always do, when I became aware of barbed giggling being projected my way from a few tables away. I looked up and saw that a group of young women of about my own age were tossing knowing glances in my direction and grinning to each other. One, Charlize (really) said loudly "I wonder why Jack doesn't have a girlfriend. That'd odd, isn't it, Jack? How come a good-looking lad like yourself hasn't got a girl?." There was more giggling and one of the other girls stage-whispered to her friends that maybe it wasn't a girl I wanted. I stood, folded my newspaper carefully, put the remnants of my lunch into my bag, and left the break room. I heard a cackle of laughter follow me as I went back to the shop floor and my lathe. "I'm telling you, girls, that boy's not quite the same as the rest of them!"; Charlize's voice was rich with delight. Ironically, of course, she was correct - just not in the manner she was suggesting.

I arrived home, showered and prepared a meal. Sitting down to eat it, I decided to send you one of the photographs you'd taken of yourself, so I scrolled through my phone and selected one. In it, you stood proud, cupping your sperm-dripped left breast in your hand, your face, similarly adorned, turned to face the camera. The tracks made by your tear-washed makeup were conspicuous as they made their way down your cheeks and I smiled to myself as I remembered what had engendered those same tears and the flush of hot victory I'd felt when I ejaculated so heavily across your hair, face and breasts. I sent the picture and then finished my food, returning to the small kitchen to wash up. I left my phone on the table, but when I returned I saw immediately that you'd replied.

Who's she, Jack? She looks like your sort of woman. What did you make her do for you?

She's just a sub I know. She did exactly what I told her to do and she got just as much as I did from the encounter. I tortured her nipples, whipped her thighs and buttocks, made her choke herself on her own dildo and finished my making her blow me.

I'd agree that she got as much out of it as you. I had to have Mary find a new outfit to hide the marks; there was no way I could go to work like that. Would you like to see it?

I sensed that this was part of the dance, and that if I appeared too keen I would be derided for it, so I decided to feign disinterest.

One black dress is much like another.

Instantly I could see that you were typing a response, and it was a matter of seconds before your message arrived, accompanied by a picture.

You damaged my skin to the point where I couldn't wear my normal clothes, Jack. You're going to look at my outfit.

Fine, I thought - I was sure it would be as enticing on you, if less revealing, than the dress you'd been wearing on the night I watched you subjugate, humiliate and degrade Aimee. I looked at the picture and saw you wearing a severe halter-necked black jumpsuit which left only your arms and shoulders naked. Your eyes were full of the fire that I'd come to expect, and your gaze bored into the camera as if challenging it to capture your beauty and the full force of your personality. The material clung to your shape enticingly, and I could plainly see the protrusion of your nipples against it.

Beautiful. No bra, I notice.

No, not yet. My nipples are too sore and my breasts too bruised to wear a bra. I should imagine it will take a few days before I can work in one. I cancelled all my appointments for a few days after our session; I had reason to believe it would be the best course of action. I could not let my clients see the crop marks and inflammation.

This didn't come as a surprise; you are nothing if not practical. I also knew that the loss of several thousand pounds in cash wouldn't worry you overmuch. I also felt a perverse sense of pride at having inflicted such pain on you at your own bidding, and had met your expectations in doing so. Another message came through:

The slut we know has been complaining that you haven't contacted her, despite Mary having given you her number. I have a job for you; put this right at your earliest convenience. You will find a way to meet her under false pretences and when you do so you will make her degrade herself for your enjoyment. You will send me video evidence of this, and then I may reward you for your efforts. It is up to you how you go about this; it is also your responsibility to choose that reward.

How interesting, I thought. I did not reply, but made a phone call before continuing with the evening I had planned.

* * *

I listen to the suck of the tide as the river passes beneath me. The night air is still and I can hear the anonymous sounds of the city from my position at the end of the pier. I settle deep into the shadows and wait, my pulse slowing as I breathe slowly. It has taken me a week to put this plan into place, but here I am, black-clad and silent. Nobody has come out of the ferry terminal since I arrived; the service has finished for the night and all is deserted. Nevertheless, I have prepared well and have the collar of my donkey jacket turned up and a cap pulled low over my eyes. During my reconnaissance visit this afternoon I became just another weekend sightseer as I identified spots where the CCTV did not cover, and it is in one of these that I now wait, thinking myself further into invisibility, metaphorically becoming one with the shadows as I wait.

The pilings at the pier's end cast sodium-lit shadows onto the water as I remember my conversation with Mary; she had agreed to tell Aimee to meet you at the end of this, London's longest pier, at 0100 hours tonight. In order to allay her suspicions, Mary had told her that you wanted to reward her for her resilience during our session. A text message had confirmed that this had been satisfactorily arranged - she has no idea that this is a falsehood.

I keep listening, waiting for her to arrive. The tide has fallen, leaving the river's noisome mud banks exposed, as the river confines itself briefly to its main channel which passes under my booted feet. Sirens wail on the northern bank, racing eastwards towards the city airport, and as they fade I hear the first sounds of her footsteps. I stay still, background, and focus on the regular click of her shoes on the deck of the pier. As the footsteps come closer I can hear her speaking quietly into her mobile phone. "Yes, Mary. I'm arriving now. I'll see her soon." She comes into view and moves to stand in the position I'd specified (the second CCTV blind spot), dropping her phone into the pocket of her coat as she does so. She leans on the railing, looking downriver. I feel my phone vibrate silently in my pocket; I know it will be Mary, alerting me to Aimee's presence.

At that moment I begin to move silently but quickly, falling on her like a wolf on a lone roe doe, slipping my left hand across her mouth and stifling the scream that I know will be rising in her throat. She struggles, attempting to rake my shins with her shoes, but I anticipate this and hold her tight to my chest and lean back, taking the weight onto the balls of her feet to prevent her from doing so. With my right arm I take her phone from her coat pocket, stuffing it into my own.

"Hello, pretty...." My voice is granite, cold and unflinching. "You be quiet and still and this won't hurt a bit." She attempts to struggle out of my grasp, but I'm too strong for her and she knows this. I feel her slow her struggles and I hold her trembling form against the dense material of my jacket. "Good girl. Now, we both know that I am in charge here. I'm going to take my hand from your mouth; do not scream, do not fight me. If you follow my instructions this will be easier for you. Nod if you understand." A moment passes and then she hesitatingly nods her head so I carefully remove my hand from her mouth and turn her around. She cannot see my face; the peak of my cap, my collar and the orange sodium lights behind me ensure that. I, however, can see hers; she is shaking in fear and small sobs escape her.

"Okay, now, I know it's a cool evening but you don't need that big coat on, do you? Open it up and show me what I'm working with, here" I command. Her eyes widen and for a minute I think she's going to refuse so I shake her once by the shoulders and with a whimper she shrugs the expensive lambswool coat off her shoulders, revealing that she is dressed exactly as I had instructed. Black kitten-heeled open toe shoes, bare legs and black hot pants underneath a red paisley camisole top. The jut of her generous bosom was unsupported, her nipples and their piercings obvious through the thin fabric of the camisole. A distant, animal part of my brain howls at me to abandon this pretence and take her now but I steel myself against this limbic interloper and focus on the task in hand. I stare into her eyes, recognising the fear within them, before allowing my gaze to drop to the fine silver chain that disappears into her cleavage. My rough fingers trace its descent and I push them between her breasts and recover the small silver heart I find hanging there. She sobs again and attempts to flatten herself further against the railings. I hold the heart up and pretend to read what's engraved there; I know what it is, having already seen it.

"'Hurt Me'; well, maybe I will. Maybe I'll force you to fuck me while I spank that pretty arse and slap those breasts you seem so proud of" I grate. "Who am I, Aimee? Say my fucking name!."

She gapes at the sound of her name and pauses. I reach up, pull my cap off and reveal my face.

"Hello, slut. Not expecting me, were you?"

"Jack? What the.... Fuck, I was so scared. How did you know it was me?" She is stammering and crying in relief now, her breath coming in great gasps as she realises that she is safe and that I am not a rapist bent on taking her by force. She slumps back against the railings and curses me. "You fucking prick! You fucking

bastard

."

"Aimee, you will not speak to me like that. You are, are you not, a slut? The last time I saw you, did you not beg me to fuck you?" I reply, my voice still firm. A change comes over her face, lit up by the orange glow of the lights, and at this point I know I have her. Without thinking about it she slips into her role, straightening up and dropping her gaze to the deck in front of her.

"Yes, Jack. I am a slut and I did beg you to fuck me" she breathes, steadied by the familiarity of submission. "Are you going to fuck me now?"

"One question at a time. Firstly, you asked how I knew it would be you standing here," I said. "It was simple, slut. You were not here to meet Deborah, you see. I arranged with Mary to get you here. I arranged instructions for Mary to give you to be dressed in this manner. I knew you would be here because the temptation of seeing Deborah, even if it meant putting yourself in a dangerous and vulnerable position, late at night, would be too much for you to resist." I take her phone from my pocket and hold it out to her. As she reaches for it she shrugs her pale lambswool coat back onto her shoulders, and I hand her the phone before running my right hand over the swell of her breasts, delighting in their weight and firmness. I allow my fingers to pause over her left nipple, feel for the silver bar that runs through it and tweak it firmly through her top. She sighs and pushes the breast towards me almost imperceptibly, leaning forward a little. The nipple bunches itself up and extends itself away from the breast and a flash of animal lust races through me as I see this; I'd scared her witless but her body was still keen to let me do whatever I wanted to her.

"Secondly, you asked if I was going to fuck you. I believe you live not far from here - Bonnet Street, in fact. A gentleman would squire his whore home, and she might invite him in, mightn't she?." Aimee nodded hungrily. "Good. After you. Oh, and take that coat off. Let's see if the cold air has any effect on that beautiful slut skin of yours." So saying I begin to walk back along the pier towards the lights on the northern bank. Aimee quickly removes her coat and hurries after me.

A few minutes' walk brings us to the ground floor entrance of a "new and exciting exclusive apartment complex," according to the sign hanging above the revolving security door. This part of London is new, shiny, and reeks of money. I have no doubt that some of it is entirely legitimate. A quick Google search reveals that the cheapest apartment in this block costs a shade under three thousand pounds per calendar month to lease, and the most expensive double that. I decide to have some fun with this knowledge; Aimee swipes a card at the door, access is granted and we step into the lobby, which is of the cream furnishings and stainless steel trim school of décor. A young man leaps up from behind the concierge desk, runs his eyes in horror over my army boots, worn jeans and donkey jacket and holds his hand up to me, palm outwards, in the universal gesture of "not-in-those-trainers-you-ain't."

"Is everything okay, Miss?" he asks Aimee. "If this gentleman's presence is not desirable I can call the police immediately." Without waiting for an answer he picks up a telephone and begins to dial, but Aimee says:

"Thanks, Oscar, but no. This is my.... friend, Jack. He'll be coming in with me." Oscar puts the phone receiver down but continues to look at me with undisguised distaste. It's obvious that he can see no reason why a man in his early twenties, especially one dressed like me, would be in the company of an obviously well-to-do woman at least ten years his senior and several social strata above him, especially this late at night and when she was dressed so provocatively.

My reluctance to be treated as an inferior comes to the fore, and as Oscar begins to protest I cut him off: "Oscar, old boy, thanks

awfully

, but that will be all. Don't let us interrupt your important work a moment longer. Aimee, lead on." Aimee does so, and I follow her to the door of the lift at the far end of the lobby. Oscar looks after us in incredulity but I ignore him, his immaculate suit and his lack of chin.

Once we arrive in Aimee's flat I order her to kneel in the centre of the living room. The place is finished in the pale-coloured spartan fashion that the upper middle urban classes find so appealing. I look round, wondering who could afford to live like this, and then realise that although she spends what I earn in three months on her rent for one, the answer is kneeling in front of me.

"Take your top off, slut. I want to watch you pinch your nipples." Aimee does so, immediately and without question, rolling the brown points between her fingers, gripping them firmly. I watch as she hefts her breastflesh's weight for a few moments, before reaching into my jacket's inner pocket and withdrawing an envelope, which I drop casually onto her dining table.

"In that envelope is a series of instructions. You will carry them out to the letter. Some of them may require you to take some time off work; I do not care whether you tell the truth or not about the reasons for your absence. Now, you asked if I was going to fuck you. Would you like me to fuck you, slut?"

Aimee crawls slowly to where I stood and kneels back on her heels. "Yes, Jack. Please fuck me. Please treat me like the slut you know I am. You can do whatever you want to me. Just tell me what you'd like and I'll do it." The temptation pounds in my ears. I am one heartbeat away from abandoning my plan and forcing my penis between her lips, ramming it into her waiting throat and ejaculating onto her beautiful face but I discipline myself, refrain from moving and remind myself that come the end of my scheme, Aimee will find herself humiliated, in pain, exhausted by orgasm and fucked into unconsciousness. I draw a steady breath and speak.

"Oh, I will fuck you, Aimee, have no doubt about it. Just... not now. Now you have a task to complete before you read your instructions." Aimee's head drops momentarily in disappointment but then she remembers herself and continues to knead her nipples, kneeling upright again. "Good slut. Now, I require you to wait in this position until I have left the building. I will text you when I want you to begin. At that point you will leave your keys here, go out through your door and lock it behind you. You will then go downstairs and enlist the help of that insipid little concierge in regaining access to your home. Once successful, you will carry out the first instruction in the envelope. You will, of course, remain topless throughout. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Jack, I understand. I will wait until you text me, and then lock myself out. I will ask Oscar for help and I will remain topless. Once I return I am to carry out the first instruction in the envelope."

"Good. I am now leaving," I say, and reach down and slap Aimee on the right breast. Not too hard, just as a reminder of what I am capable of. Her sharp intake of breath is the last thing I hear before I leave her flat.

I arrive in the lobby, barely having stepped out of the lift when I am accosted by Oscar, who seems to think that this time maybe he can assert himself as my superior. "Excuse me,

sir

," he sneers, rising from behind his desk again, "I am of course aware that this building doesn't have a dress code, but maybe next time you feel the need to make a nocturnal visit to your... friend, you could do so dressed in a manner unlike that of an off-duty binman. We do, after all, have standards, and not all of the residents here will appreciate a gentleman of your description appearing like an extra from a gangster film."

I let him finish, before coming to stand in front of him, just within his personal space. He is evidently quite pleased with his little speech and is just beginning to direct me to the door when I say, in a friendly tone, "Oscar, old chap, no doubt you've got where you are with your exquisite manners and a well-cut suit, but I'm afraid that I'm cut from a rather different cloth. I have a masters degree in social psychology, and I can tell you that you are absolutely shitting bricks at the thought of me doing something oikish, such as roughing you up in some way." I let this land, and then as he begins to speak I cut him off, my voice like a whip. There is nothing friendly about my tone now. "If you ever speak to me like that again, you jumped-up little prick, I will fuck you up in ways that you cannot even begin to think of." I loom over him, stepping forward until he is forced to tilt his face upward to meet my gaze. "I may not have your breeding, and I may not have your privilege, but I don't need or want them. Where I come from we insult each other directly, and we take responsibility for what happens when an insult is delivered. You are nothing but a shiny-suited night porter, in my eyes, for all your expensive vowels and expensive shoes. Now, get out of my fucking way." He moves quickly, slumping into his chair, and I leave both him and the building behind me in the darkness.