To Polly's surprise, she was told to attend for interview at a building in London's Park Lane. She dressed with care. Simplicity was her aim; innocence and purity. White frilly panties, flimsy halter bra to accentuate the perfection of her breasts, peach-coloured silk stockings and suspenders. Then she slipped into a long white dress with full skirt, a simple wrap-over tied at the waist. It was sufficiently sheer for her darkened nipples, carefully emphasised with pigment, to show through.
Her ash-blonde hair was perfectly plaited and swept up into a bun at the top of her head. The slightest touch of make-up to bring out the shape and colour of her lips, her eyebrows lightly pencilled, her face touched with powder to obscure any sign of perspiration. A spray of lavender anti-perspirant. She looked sophisticated, haughty and self-assured. But she couldn't prevent soiling her knickers with her juices, running with anticipation.
A taxi took her to an exclusive mansion in Park Lane with an impressive entrance. A door-man in standard uniform met her, checking her name against a card he took from his inside pocket before ushering her into the lobby. The spacious hall she entered had a marble floor. Its centre, covered with a circular silk Chinese rug, was overhung by a large, cascading crystal chandelier.
Dominating the hall was a large sweeping staircase, thickly carpeted and bordered by a wonderfully carved and turned, polished mahogany balustrade. The walls were superbly decorated with panels depicting rustic Gainsborough-like scene. Luxury spilled over everywhere. Soft music was piped into the hall. She recognised Mozart but not the piece of music.
'It's now or never to show your cool, girl!' she told herself.
The doorman spoke softly into a phone before escorting her to the back of the hall where a lift-shaft ran up behind the staircase well. The lift itself resembled an old-fashioned Pullman car; polished mahogany, metal folding doors mirrors and watercolours, with an Axminster carpet on the floor. Once inside, the doorman pressed a button on the outside controlling the destination of the lift. It sighed swiftly to the penthouse floor. The doors slid open and Polly was faced by a butler waiting for her. A well-built man, tall and imposing in a blue livery.
'Follow, please.' He had a slight foreign accent. Polly followed him down the corridor, thickly carpeted, through double mahogany doors into an airy, sunny room.
'Wait, please,' the voice instructed. He went out through the double doors at the opposite end of the room. Polly looked round at the comfortable furniture, the oil-paintings on the walls - she recognised a Gainsborough (wasn't that the one which was stolen from a gallery a couple of years ago?) - heavy brocade curtains, festooned with thick tasselled cords, perfectly swagged. The off-white deep-pile carpet, the tall windows opening out onto a balcony overlooking the gardens, all gave the impression of extreme wealth. Standing in this expanse of luxury, Polly felt very vulnerable and meek. The doors re-opened. The butler stood to one side of the entrance.
'Go in, please.'
Polly entered into a magnificent large room. It was impressive. Similar tall windows filled the wall to her right. The floor was polished rose-wood parquet. A tiger skin rug in front of the large open fireplace of Italian marble, a finely carved rose-wood surround topped with a huge mirror in an ormolu frame. The fire-grate was over-flowing with plants and flowers, adding a splash of colour contrasting with the cold marble. To the side of the fireplace Polly noticed a strange object. A large wooden wheel, painted in gaudy, gypsy-like colours, it stood over six feet high. It was tipped slightly backwards, at its centre, a large central hub. A spot-light was trained on it. On a dais at the far end of the room stood a superb French table, heavily carved and gilded.
Sitting behind the table was a well-built man with a shaved head. He had a dark beard and moustache encircling his mouth. Round his neck was a gold chain and locket, his body swathed in white robes. He was gazing silently at Polly, weighing her up. At the end of the table Polly saw another man. This one was a dwarf. Polly's eyes opened wide at the sight of his a misshapen body and humped back. He had a large head topped with slicked-back hair, a flat face split in two by a black moustache. A permanent grin gave him an altogether satanic appearance. He was perched on a padded stool. He, too wore a white wrap-over robe. Polly noticed a polo neck beneath it.
She walked slowly to the centre of the room, taking in the surroundings before facing the table with head held high, her clear eyes fixed on the man in the centre. Her gaze held a suggestion of insolence. She noticed that he had a pierced ear, with a ruby gem hanging from it. When he finally stood, her heart stopped. She gasped with surprise and admiration. He was well over six feet tall. He came round the table to the front of the dais. Legs apart, he crossed his arms, looking her up and down with undisguised lechery.
Polly swallowed hard. Her legs felt like jelly. This man was a dominating dictator. She felt his power overwhelming her. Pulling herself together, she spoke. 'What is your name?' she asked in a loud voice full of authority. His eyes opened in surprise at the unexpected verbal thrust.
She went on. 'You stare at me as though I was a new slave to pleasure your body. If so, you make a big mistake.'
Out of the corner of her eye she noticed the dwarf's smile widen. His teeth were discoloured and uneven; chisel shaped and slightly protruding. Almost like an animal's. Still, the man said nothing. His eyes narrowed. Their piercing stare un-nerved Polly. Her heart was thumping against her ribs. She continued, a little unsure that she might have overdone the impertinence.
'What is it you want to ask of me?'
The man's head raised fractionally as he viewed the beautiful poised figure in pure white. He was going to enjoy correcting this lady's arrogance. She would groan with mercy before he finished with her.
'You must be Polly. My name is Ulysses,' he barked in a perfect English accent. 'The God of hate. Master of the concubines.'
His head nodded slightly in the direction of the windows. Polly recoiled in surprise. There, on each wall between the four tall, bright windows, was a woman. Five altogether. They were manacled at the wrist and ankles. Round their throats was a gold collar attached to a chain which was pad-locked to the ornate wall-light fittings.
'I don't ask you anything. I tell you! Show me your breasts!'
Polly stepped backwards. Her body stiffened.
'Certainly not!' She must show some resistance, though her whole being was screaming out to throw herself at his feet, begging for punishment at his hands. But that moment was nearer than she thought. Polly was grasped from behind by a pair of strong arms. Her wrists were roughly twisted behind her back. Glancing over her shoulder in surprise at the suddenness of the assault, Polly realised that she had forgotten all about the butler. He had followed her into the room in complete silence, to take her by surprise.
With one rough gesture, the butler grasped her gown at the shoulders, dragging it over her body until it crumpled in a heap at her feet. Polly couldn't move. Her arms remained pinned painfully behind her. The flimsy bra was torn from her, hurled to the carpet in tatters. She stood in only her panties before the might of Ulysses. His eyes opened with appreciation at the sight of her young breasts, perfectly proportioned with proud nipples pointing at his face.
Ulysses slowly shrugged away the white robe, sweeping it away from his body with a wide gesture of his arms. He stood before her, his powerful body naked except for a pouch, almost transparent, enveloping his genitals. It was well-filled, the swarthy contents straining at the fine silk. There was no sign of hair on his body except for the dark growth encircling his mouth. The skin was a pale-olive, with a lustre as though burnished. There was real strength in those shoulders and thighs. His stomach was taught, knotted with thick muscles.
Polly examined the tall, strong figure, admiring the muscular thighs, the tight cheeks of his buttocks, powerful arms and wrists. Their eyes held each other for a brief moment. She was completely hypnotised by the power behind that steel piercing look, whilst trying to put on her own insolent stare. She knew he was her new master. But not yet!
At a nod from the master, Polly was forced to her knees in front of the all-powerful figure. Her face almost touched his groin, bulging with manhood. At the table, the dwarf dropped from his stool with a nimble vault, darting to Ulysses' side. Leering at Polly, watching her reaction, he unfastened the string of his master's pouch, snatching it away to reveal the magnificence beneath. Her face froze.
His penis was certainly not puny! It was, in fact, a handsome weapon, enhanced without the usual forest of hair to conceal its base. The circumcised knob was as a large ripe plum, a mottled pale mauve and scarlet, topping the thickening shaft, rippling with veins and blood-vessels. Down the upper skin of the shaft, Polly noticed a prominent scar forming a diagonal ridge. The result, no doubt, of some sadistic activity gone too far. Polly was mesmerised by the sight. She must have that magnificent phallus. Ulysses saw the greed in her eyes.
