Smokey Saga #63:
"
The Art Of The Squeal
"
*****
My first thought was to call this "Hooked II," but that would make very little sense. The characters and storyline are completely different, and besides, the Smokey Sagas past #50 are all Sapphic. Perhaps they should now be known as Sapphic Sagas. It's going under Lesbian Sex, but you'll want to know that this also involves BDSM, and
sort
of Non-Consent, though that's debatable. Oh, yes, and this is not a story idea suggested by someone else; we are now back to those directly from the wonderfully twisted mind of yours truly. And you know the drill, friends: feedback's welcomed, valued and appreciated.
*****
Humdrum Doldrums
Saturday, April 23rd, 2016, 9:47 a.m.
Dawn, as it had a fairly regular way of doing, dawned. It was a beautiful thing to behold: springtime Saturday.
Citizens of Juniper pursuing weekday occupations slept in and took it easy. Business picked up at leisure outlets such as stores and restaurants. Children awoke to favorite cartoons and then it was outside to play with their friends. Baseball and softball season were underway. Yard sales dotted every other suburban neighborhood. And Miss Sylvia Quibley was bored out of her ever-loving skull.
47-year-old Sylvia was the last surviving member of the wealthy Quibley dynasty. The payoff—quite literally—was that she'd become heiress of her family's multitrillion-dollar estate. She lived in the Quibley family manor on her own, but by no means was alone in the colossal mansion. She was accompanied and catered to on a daily basis by her staff: dozens of butlers, maids, and additional servants taking turns doing her bidding. Their servant skills were impeccable. This was, after all, what they were paid for. They toiled tirelessly around the clock, tending to both the welfare of their beloved heiress and the household in general. Still, Sylvia couldn't help wishing more and more lately that her servants were paid as well to be her
friends
. To just hang out with her. Or more.
It wasn't as if she wished to selfishly take advantage of her employees for her own gain. It also wasn't like Sylvia was isolated while the staff did their thing elsewhere. She had plenty of interaction with them, mostly in the form of waiting on her. But to Sylvia's disenchantment, the staff was, well, stiff. Too "professional," were there such a concept. As much as she tried to laugh and joke around with them, the most she got out of the servants was a polite smile and a, "Delightful, Madame."
While Sylvia wouldn't count this as a complaint, it left her feeling disconcerted nevertheless. As if being doted on day by day by a collection of robots, or Stepford Spouses. If, heaven forbid, Sylvia found herself in any form of dire peril, and cried out for help, she'd no doubt her servants would come to her rescue. Whether they'd display any real emotion in doing so was the question. At times, she had to fight off the urge to poke, goose, or tickle them, just to see if she could get a reaction.
It occurred to her more than once to get a pet, but some of the staff were allergic. Also, Sylvia preferred a companion who could talk and share personality. But while she waited to find one, there were also times she was glad for her privacy. The last several years unearthed a plethora of hobbies for Sylvia to enjoy. In due time she'd meandered through reading, hiking, online networking, crocheting, playing polo, writing poetry, origami, and the contents of her sizable game room. Finally, the last year had brought along Sylvia Quibley's newest pastime, of which she'd grown most fond: painting.
Her super-sized study was converted accordingly for each passing fancy. It was now turned into a studio, occupied by easels, palettes and watercolors, her chosen medium. She'd dabbled in oils and acrylics, but at the end of the day found that the good old-fashioned aquarelles served her best. She did nature works, country settings, abstracts, a few uncategorized miscellanies, and the occasional self-portrait. She couldn't keep all her canvases, so some she framed and hung. Others she scrapped, gave to friends or donated elsewhere. She'd yet to have any professionally displayed, but didn't mind; painting was an excursion for her own enjoyment and pleasure, that was all.
Similarly, it would be nice to unveil a finished piece for a servant and be met with more than another, "Delightful, Madame"...but Sylvia couldn't really expect that either. Men and girls Friday who took employ in such an upscale environment respected the chain of command far too much to tamper with it. They didn't fraternize, little as Sylvia would've minded. They simply went about their duties. And Sylvia didn't want them to slough off completely; maybe just take a break for a minute to keep her company, and alleviate her utter
boredom
. Canvases were nice to work on and admire, but they couldn't converse, tell Sylvia amusing stories, or laugh at her jokes.
Friendship was not the only interaction Sylvia missed in her life. A romantic or sexual playmate would be just as nice to have about—but a big no-no where servants were concerned. Being her own sexual playmate was fine, but got repetitive. There were lots of ways to spice up her private happy time: digging into her stash of toys and pornography, experimenting with different techniques...but cuddling up in bed and whispering sweet nothings to a dildo was rather pointless and silly.
Sylvia knew what a challenge it was to find a soulmate—or a suitable substitute—for normal nontrillion-heirs. In her case, there was also the factor of money. Off-grounds, she could pretend to be middle-class with someone else, but only keep it up so long before wanting to take her home. Wealth could go a good way towards "convincing" a woman to have feelings for her, but Sylvia wished to be desired on her own merits. She was decent, kind-hearted, and she liked to think attractive and funny. In middle age-dom, she was getting wrinkle-worn in the kisser and going silver on top. And honestly, she didn't mind it much. Although there was ashy snow on the roof, there was still a fire in the cellar. And while she could afford enough hair dye and facial cream to last the rest of her life, she didn't feel it necessary. When she looked in the mirror, her wrinkles and silveriness gave her a sense of being almost supernatural. Like a wise withered old sage, who
might
just be able to cast a magic spell. She
couldn't
...but it was fun to imagine.
Then sometimes the thought was placed in her mind how to describe
her
perfect woman. Such a person may not have existed, but Sylvia's taste was pretty eclectic. She hadn't really any specific "type"; she was interested in all sorts of gals: younger, older, blonde, brunette, ginger, race or ethnicity notwithstanding. Physical characteristics weren't more vital than those of one's persona. Then again, even should she meet a girl who was nice on the surface, take her home and discover her true colors, Sylvia believed she could "persuade" said girl to conduct herself with a bit more benevolence, via...
other
means.
She smirked at the reflection in her compact as she sat this morning in her big comfy recliner, bare, pedicured peds wagging on the footrest. One of her gentleman-servants, a fellow called Chippers, passed by.
"Would you prefer breakfast here in the living room, Miss Quibley?"
"That'd be only lovely, Chip, thank you," she gratefully nodded up at him. "Oh, and could you turn on the TV for me, please? Thanks so much, buddy."
Chippers switched on the set, then adjourned to the kitchen to have the chef prepare Sylvia's Saturday morning fare: two eggs sunny side up on French toast, two pigs in buttermilk blankets under a drizzle of blueberry syrup, and a nice big glass of fresh-squeezed OJ. A short spell later saw Sylvia enjoying both the repast, and her second half-hour of TV.
"Will there be anything else, Madame?" asked Chippers.
Yes, please: a woman. A cute little thing with bangs, dimples and a big heart who laughs at my jokes would be nice
.
"No, hon, I'm fine. But...hey, why don't you take a little break. Yeah, actually, sit and check out the tube with me a while. Go ahead."
Chippers made a strange face.
"...Miss Quibley, I really should be off to tend to your chambers," he said, starting away.
"Oh—please?" Sylvia asked, reaching for his elbow. "Chip? Please, just...just, hang out with me a little?...It would mean a lot to me."
"...'Hang...
out
,' Madame?"
Sylvia grinned. "Yeah!" She smacked the sofa cushion beside her invitingly. "C'mon, grab some plush! Knock a load off!"
Chippers felt awkward and unsure about this, having practically never done anything like it before, but he wandered over and sat.
"There ya go!" praised Sylvia, patting his knee. "Good! So what's your favorite show?"
This made Chippers uncomfy. But Miss Quibley's wishes were the staff's command, even if said wishes went against their code of professionalism. So he supposed since she
had
specifically requested his company, he was within boundaries to perch on the sofa, and "hang out" with her. This seemed highly unusual. But, if it was what Madame wanted...
The simple question she'd just put forth, however, confounded him.
"I...really haven't any favorite programs, Miss Quibley."
Wacky as Sylvia found this to believe, she sensed he was uneasy about sitting to take a break when he felt performing his duties was the right thing to do. But...
gol-
ly, she thought.
Okay, just
...
small steps
.
"All right, well, let's just do some channel surfing and see what happens."
