Peppermint Chapter 4
This is the fourth chapter in the Peppermint series; if you have not already read the preceding three, I suggest that you do so; if nothing else it will give you the context for what happens to Aimee in this chapter.
As always, during text conversations, my own messages are shown in bold type, and Deborah and Aimee's in italics.
As always, the "you" referred to in my narration is Deborah, the woman who led me down this path.
A few days had passed; nothing of any interest occurred during them; although tempted, I decided not to contact you. I also ignore Aimee, although the desire to meet her and fuck her weighed heavily in my mind. I just went to work, endured a fusillade of cackled taunts every breaktime from Charlize and her friends, the Murder of Crows, worked on my house and played my guitar. As much as I enjoyed the latter two activities and tolerated the first easily enough, the second was beginning to annoy me. The ridiculousness of it didn't bother me but the homophobic tone of the abuse did. Despite not being gay myself, I dreaded to think how someone who was might suffer under the sharp focus of the cruelty. The verbal had developed from sly hints and barbed questions to open hostility; barbed slurs that would have hurt someone of a more sensitive disposition than my own. The reality of it was that the Murder actually knew nothing about me and my lack of response to their jibes annoyed them almost as much as it mystified them. After a visit from a concerned colleague (who assured me that nobody else in the factory cared that I was gay, despite my assurances that I was not) who said that he'd take it up with HR if it didn't end soon, I decided to put an end to it. The method I'd chosen would, I thought, be very effective; I wasn't going to use aggression or complain to the management - I was going to use Aimee.
To this end I had messaged her a curt few sentences, instructing her to dress as if for a formal business meeting and to take a picture of herself sat at her work desk. This she had done, and the result could not have been any closer to my expectations. The image showed her perched on the edge of her desk, wearing black fuck-me boots, a tight pencil skirt and a short black bolero jacket. Under the jacket a blue and white striped work blouse (well fitted, naturally) hinted at the generous swell of her breasts, her fine silver chain showing in the upper fraction of her cleavage. Her hair was worn tied back into a loose ponytail, her usual dark brown waterfall restrained into a manageable stream that coursed over her left shoulder. Perfect for my purposes, I decided. I sent her another message; not words of thanks, but of instruction.
You need to begin to work on the third task, Aimee.
Yes, Jack. I will
. Her reply came immediately, as I had known it would.
I will telephone you at work tomorrow at lunch time. Be sure to answer immediately.
The following day I ensured that each element of my plan was in place. I made certain that the Murder saw me as I arrived at the factory. Usually I was there way before they arrived; they liked to hang on until the last minute, hanging around by the fire exit, smoking and exchanging gossip, commenting unpleasantly on those who arrived for work and have to walk through their group. The arrogance of this infuriated me - they were in their thirties, for Christ's sake, and should have been beyond such pettiness.
"Oooh, you're late this morning, Jack. Did you have a late night over at your boyfriend's place?" Charlize barked the question and sure enough her sidekicks' shrill laughter cracked across the car park and echoed off the concrete. "Here, Vikki, check to see if he's walking funny!" Charlize ordered a minion, who produced her phone and began to video me as I made my way through their number and towards the door.
"I dunno, Char, what do you reckon? The big lump always walks like he's shit himself, don't he?" Vikki was known for her loud voice and her Croydon facelift. I ignored her, opened the door and walked to my workstation, the echoes of their laughter becoming quieter as I made my way to my lathe. Once my ear defenders went on and I began machining my thoughts turned to my plan for lunchtime. Swarf poured from the lathe and formed a convoluted pattern before breaking off in clumps. Between pieces I swept it, discarded, into a plastic bin, a habit that I knew drew derision from some of my workmates for being "too tidy". In my eyes, though, a tidy mind equalled a tidy workplace, and a tidy workplace equalled a tidy mind. It was also safer; the edges of the curls of swarf could be as sharp as razors, and a nasty cut could be suffered if it built up around the lathe chuck. A sloppy approach could, I found, often lead to an unexpected consequence.
* * *
An unexpected consequence was what occurred when Charlize approached me at my table in the corner of the break room at lunchtime and slapped my newspaper out of my hands, plonking herself down at the table next to me. I ignored her.
"Here's the thing, Jack. We don't like queers here. We think you should fuck off and leave us straight people to it", she whispered. I assume she whispered because she knew full well that "we" certainly didn't mean everyone in the workforce and that she'd be put rightfully in her place if she was overheard. "You've got two days to find another job, because if you're still here on Friday afternoon my boyfriend's going to kick your fucking teeth in". With that she made to rise from her seat, saying "You haven't even got the balls to stand up for yourself, have you? You're pathetic; a pathetic queer bastard with no fucking balls".
At this I looked at her for the first time. "Charlize, please don't make the mistake of judging my sexuality. Furthermore, it should be of no interest or concern to you. As it happens, I have something to show you". I too spoke quietly; there was no need to cause a disturbance, and the impact of what I was about to do would be all the more effective for being done unobserved by any colleagues.
Curiosity got the better of her and she sat back down. "I'll judge you any way I want, you sad little man. What are you going to do about it?".
I opened my phone and showed her the picture of Aimee in her business clothing.
"So what? A picture of some tart from the internet? What am I supposed to be looking at?" Charlize was unimpressed.
"This is not 'some tart from the internet', as you so politely put it, Charlize. This is my.... slut."
Charlize's cackle of disbelief rang through the break room. "In your dreams, freak! What would a woman like that have to do with a fucking bender like you?" She barely managed to force herself to whisper.
"I assure you", I replied, "that this is Aimee. She is my slut".
"Go on then, fucking prove it!". Victorious delight showed on Charlize's thin face. She evidently didn't believe a word of it. "That's just a picture of some woman you've found online and you think I'm fucking dumb enough to swallow some bullshit about her being your slut? Fuck off!"
Ignoring her derision, I selected Aimee's name from my contacts list and said "We can video call her, if you like. You can see what she has to say".
"By all means, if you want to make yourself look even more of a weird sad-sack than you already are, go ahead, Jack". The disbelief was still writ large on her face.
I tapped the screen and after a few short moments Aimee answered the call. She was sat at her office desk and wearing a white blouse with a black bra showing faintly through it, her hair once again the familiar shiny brown waterfall. I glanced towards Charlize, whose cruel grin had been replaced by a look of uncertainty.
"Hello, Aimee. I have someone here I want you to meet. She doesn't believe that you are my slut. Explain". My voice had taken on the authoritative tone that I used when communicating with Aimee; Charlize's gaze flicked towards me in surprise as she heard it. I angled the phone to allow her to see Aimee's image clearly.
"I'm Aimee, and I'm Jack's slut", she said, without hesitation or embarrassment. "Jack tells me what he wants me to do, and I do it. I need him to treat me cruelly, like a slut should be treated. He hurts my body and belittles me; he makes me expose myself in public and makes me orgasm for his entertainment. I'm his slut and I enjoy our arrangement. Who are you? You don't look like his usual type at all".
Charlize's smile was completely absent now. "Jesus, Jack, I knew you were a fucking weirdo but that's just.... fucked up".
