A truly classic female domination story.
A story of the Slavehouse.
All men who come into contact with its fatal, alluring spell are doomed to be subjugated in the most degrading and extreme way, transformed permanently into vacuous, adoring pets of the evil Mistresses who reside there.
Those who come with the mantle of authority, those who chance upon a misfortunate intrusion, those who approach in blissful ignorance, all become their helpless, captive prey, doomed to live out the twisted intentions of Miss Pearson, Miss Whitworth, and Miss Tate, sisters without mercy.
Of those men who foolishly enter, none ever come out again except as a living testament to the power of the Slavehouse, broken, changed, subjugated and enslaved.
In the fourth book of this dark and compelling series, the shocking depths of what lies at the heart of Miss Pearson’s thriving establishment begin to appear, and readers beware: As the visitors in the tale are changed by the experience, so will you inevitably be. …
Charlotte Benning is a practicing UK Mistress, and writes from considerable experience.
Word count: 15,764:
Detective Sergeant Lawrence Bell could not make up his mind whether it had been a gesture of the utmost generosity on the part of Miss Whitworth when she had squeezed his arm so tenderly in the hospital cafe, or whether it had been an overture of malicious and unwholesome intention towards him. Certainly her expression was to some extent mischievous as he remembered it, though he acknowledged to himself that each time he saw her beautiful features in his mind’s eye, which was practically all the time, he had, no doubt, added something of his own to the memory.
Though he remained uncertain on this point, another meeting with the bewitching woman approached with a sort of dread inevitability that communicated somehow with a part of him that took no heed of rationality, nor seemed much connected any other aspect of his life, past or present.
He had taken up police work much like his father had, with unswerving dedication and integrity. His mother had encouraged it, too, being content to assist her husband in his duties by providing a well organised, stable home to come back to. His father had been such a fine man, and with Lawrence being an only child there was never any doubt in anyone’s mind that police-work would be his calling as his father before him, least of all in the mind of Lawrence himself.
Although on the whole, he had few regrets, it had proved difficult for him to replicate his father’s achievements. Most notably his inability to attract and marry a suitable wife. The sort of woman his mother exemplified were very hard to find in the modern age, and those girls who did come his way did not stay long, unwilling to become accessories to his moral crusade on the streets.
However, it was only now, years later, that his total confidence in the worth and wisdom of his life had begun to fail. The tender touch of Miss Whitworth’s arm was all it had taken to bring on a crisis in this respect.
He did not seek to fool himself. There was more and worse crime on the streets than ever before. He had not changed anything, or solved anything in the way he had dreamed of at the beginning. His name was not on any honour roll, to be remembered for years to come. Nor had his father’s been, come to that.
Retirement was not far away, and the future suddenly stretched away into a terrible emptiness.
Into that emptiness, a bright, beautiful, sensual figure now stood: Miss Whitworth.
When he thought of her, nothing else existed apart from the all-consuming power of her subliminal appeal, the dark, aching gravitation that seemed to suck and pull at his soul with irresistible force. She filled the void to its uttermost limits, and he felt a swelling, wondrous sense of gratefulness to her that consumed him completely. He had not even known that such power of presence existed.
It seemed as if he had endured an age of indecision when he finally sent Miss Whitworth a text message asking to see her again, though in reality it was only a matter of a couple of days. This in itself was a marked departure from his normal habits. He had never sent a text in his life before. His mobile had been more or less a redundant curiosity. It took him a while to send, and he was mindful that it was somehow an adolescent thing to do, or a feminine, but he simply did not have the gumption to actually ring Miss Whitworth straight out. Perhaps it was more than that, too, he reflected, as the text message swished away. It seemed a more polite way to communicate than interrupt her life with the insistent, impertinent ringing of a telephone. Already, from the very start, he was seeing the world differently than he had before. He would have phoned the Chief Inspector without worrying about it if were convenient, but he blanched at the idea of annoying Miss Whitworth.
He stayed at home, pacing up and down, waiting for a response. He would normally have gone out on his day off, fishing or walking in the park, but he recognised that these occupations had just been a way of surviving from day to day. The enthusiasm vanished as soon as something deep inside him was touched. The entire sum of his professional, bachelor existence had been rendered meaningless by that one tender touch on his arm, that single, warm gesture from Miss Whitworth.
After nearly sixty years, his life hung on a text message from a girl, like an adolescent boy. He recalled with some embarrassment his patronising comments to young male colleagues when they were dictated to by their wives or girlfriends, accounting himself superior for his refusal of such fleshly compromises.
When the texted reply came, he jumped at the emphatic ‘beep’. His hands were trembling as he pressed the ‘read’ button, noting that it had indeed come from her.
All it said, in the peremptory style of that mode of communication, was:
Good. 1400. My place.
His stomach lurched. Her place. The house of Miss Pearson. Two hours from now. He heard a voice in his head, voices from long ago, things that he had himself said, warning voices, the voices of wisdom, all strident and panic-stricken, repeating over and over that he was being a fool and that he was being seduced by evil.
He understood them, heard them, and even whispered the words to himself as he stood there in his front room. He even believed them to be true. He decided that he would not go, though there was nothing wrong with going up stairs and working out what he would have worn, had he have gone.
Obviously he could not go in his police uniform. It was hardly an official visit. Pity. He always felt so much more certain of himself in uniform. Many officers couldn’t wait to get home and take off their official garb, but Mr Bell removed his only with the greatest reluctance as he came home from his shift.
Would the rather drab corduroys and grey cotton shirt that he currently wore be acceptable, or perhaps his one and only suit for weddings and funerals would be better?
He tried it on and stood in front of the small mirror in the hall. He simply did not know what would be best. He knew how to approach every normal occasion, but he was not used to dressing for a woman like Miss Whitworth. In the end he decided that anything other than the suit would be disrespectful.
He looked at himself, and stepped closer to the mirror to gaze into his own eyes. They were scared, trapped, haunted eyes, the blue full of clouds and shadows and darkness. He told himself to text her immediately and put an end to all this foolishness. He steeled himself, put the suit away and went down to get the phone. He tapped out an apologetic cancellation, his heart beating hard in his chest. He hesitated over the ‘send’ button. He tried to gather all his will together and glanced round his sitting room for inspiration. All the detritus and significant things of his life, all lending their support to strengthen his identity, remind him who he was, what he stood for, and who he had always been.
But as his mind worked along these familiar channels, the image of Miss Whitworth arose also, and the pressure on his arm he felt again, as if it were really her slim, beautiful fingers bestowing the gentle, warm benediction once more, and her inscrutable smile so close and so beautiful. Her presence dismissed all the other influences with consummate ease, reducing them to a total irrelevance, and he was suddenly alone with her, and nothing else in the world existed, or ever could exist.
He pressed the ‘delete’ on the phone, and sat there shaking all over. He simply could not resist her.
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