Please read this before reading the story.
Although my stories are typically BDSM in their subject matter, they are certainly
not
genre/lifestyle/romantic BDSM stories, where one can expect care, consent, safe-words, and a code of conduct that keeps real people safe in real relationships. My stories are pure fantasy, and much darker—please don’t read them if this will upset you. This is why I am recategorising my stories to the Non-Consent/Reluctance category.
*****
I hadn't dropped out of college, I told myself. I just - hadn't gone back.
Refusing to stay with my parents after a terrible row on Christmas day, I had got the coach to the Alps, and found an agency that provided chalet girls for the high-end ski trade.
Finally, I used my education for something practical - to impress them at the interview with my sophistication, my command of both Russian and English, my knowledge of world affairs, and my general all-round competence.
I got the job, and was in work 2 days later. An English couple, 2 pre-teen kids, infuriating, ill-mannered, lazy, rude - a caricature of the worst kind of people that island produces. But I made light work of it - it was easy, somehow, now that I had decided I no longer cared, that everything was meaningless.
Another week with a quiet German family, annoying in a different way - no style, no charm, nothing. But again, I took it in my stride, then at the end decided to take up an offer to go out with some other chalet girls and their ski bum guys. We went to a round of bars and clubs, all essentially identical, full of people who looked, sounded and talked just like we did, got hammered to endless eurobeats, went back to a guy's flat, fucked like bunnies, slept all day, then did it again the next night, same routine, different guy. All without once having a genuine emotion.
It was time to go back to Paris, back to student life, to give up on 'my little tantrum' as my mother called at, my 'treason to the family ' according to my father and his older brother.
I so nearly did, as well - after all, what was one meaningless existence over another? Except that I got a call; another girl had broken her leg (ski-ing while drunk), and I had impressed them so that they were offering me a two week stint at one of the swankier chalets, high up on the mountain - the sort where the clients - a Russian billionaire and his kids, I was told - tended to arrive by helicopter. They gave me to understand that the tips might double the wages. I took it, not for the tips, but for the views. Views of the far peaks from the tops were the only thing that had given me peace since I'd got there, and this chalet was right up there in the sky.
So that was it, I hadn't dropped out, I was just earning some useful cash, and would catch up in a few weeks time. I blocked my mother's number (not my father's - he never called me anyway), and signed on the dotted line.
As minions, there was no helicopter for us, but a jouncy ride on a snowmobile, banging around in the dark. The driver fancied his chances, and tried hard to chat me up, but my experiences over the weekend had left me cold - I gave him flat 'no'; he called me a frigid bitch, grinned at me and left. Fine by me, I thought, and began to look around.
'Swanky' was an understatement - it was bling to the max - everything up-to-the minute, remotes for everything, rustic charm draped in satin, finished with gilded marble and mirrors, all in gruesome taste, backed up by wall-to-wall electronics and automation. Television the size of a wall, that disappeared into the ceiling when you didn't want it - that sort of nonsense.
I had an evening and the following morning, so I put my serious head on, stopped thinking, and learnt how to make it all work; scrubbed all the bits the cleaning staff had done sloppily, made a couple of cakes and some wreaths. I might as well have been at home after all, slaving for my mother, preparing for her traditional New Year's event. But here, at least, I didn't have to make small talk. The billionaires were coming tomorrow, and I'd be lucky if they learnt my name.
At least I slept well, physically and mentally exhausted, grateful for oblivion, these days.
They did indeed arrive by helicopter, mid morning, and surprised me, a little. I had been expecting loudness, insensitivity, crude displays of wealth, but in fact here was a serious, courteous man in his late forties, grizzled, tough looking, but speaking excellent French, and his two quiet children, both mid-teens, friendly if reserved, eager to ski.
They listened politely to the short tour, were appreciative of the cake (without eating more than a token few bites), then the children were off with their instructors (who had also arrived in the helicopter), and the father was setting himself up in the well-equipped study with his tech guy - who had already done a full sweep of the house in a professionally efficient manner. It was all quite impressive.
It looked as if I would have an easy couple of weeks - this lot were very self-contained. I would cook, and tidy, of course, but it seemed unlikely that I would be called upon to handle vicious sibling rivalry, as with the English, or blank-faced rudeness, as from the Germans. I turned my brain off, and did my work, staring out at the immensity of the snow-covered peaks.
It went like that for three days; breakfast spread, early and all-day ski-ing for the children, him in the study mostly, supply delivery, cleaning, tidying, cooking, evening meals, bed.
The only thing that was bothering me was Karsh. That was his name - Karsh. Not a very Russian name. Slavic, he said, but not much more, when I asked, and stared into me. He did that - looked into you, not at you, with his ice blue eyes, unblinking, unsmiling, waiting. We French can stare, too, but I was in no state for that, defeated by life already, and meekly looked down at his feet.
He was looking at me too, though - more than once, I looked up to catch him looking at me - looking at my body. It was fairly frank, in fact. He wasn't looking at me - he was looking at my body. It made me blush, but there was nothing, really, that I could complain about - he wan't leering, wasn't obvious, wasn't trying anything, or staring just at my breasts, as the German guy had often done. No, Karsh was just looking at me.
But it was getting to me. He wan't especially attractive, and he was probably as old as my dad. He obviously kept himself fit and trim, dressed rather well, actually, and had broad, hard hands that fascinated me a little, but really, there was nothing special about him really but his calm confidence and that all-seeing stare.
Nevertheless, alone in that big place with him each day, I had certainly developed a feeling of sexual tension, and with not enough to do, with a physical refusal by my body to do what I had told myself I would, and catch up with my reading list, I had lots of time to think about him, what he saw when he looked at me, whether he liked it, wondering why I couldn't tell what he was thinking - and more specifically, what he thought of me, and why that bothered me.
On the fourth day, it was announced that the children were flying over to the next valley to stay the night with their mother (Karsh was twice divorced). They would be back the next day, or perhaps the one after - the weather might not allow the helicopter to fly, apparently.
He rang for tea as usual at three in the afternoon - the security guy had told me how I should make it, Russian style, and Karsh took it three times a day. When I delivered it, he motioned with his hand, casual, confident. I had no idea what he meant by it, but assumed that I should stop and wait.
I waited for ten minutes all told; after two or three, without him having looked up from his laptop, I had made to leave;
"Stay" was all he said, and I did, feeling increasingly odd as the minutes mounted up.
The sexual tension was rising, despite there being nothing, nothing at all obvious at least, that suggested it should.
