Timmy's Story Pt. 03

This will make more sense if you have read the preceding parts.

*

Well, near perfectly, anyway...

The following days were, though, extraordinarily difficult.

The children were themselves, no problem with them, although they were a little less calm after visiting their mother, a little more liable to backchat their father, but nothing serious -- nothing he couldn't handle, for sure.

The routine re-established itself quickly and calmly, no real trouble there either, although for me it became clear that something had changed. Where before I had certainly done my chalet girl job efficiently, with a good attitude, I had never really felt like a servant - I had been play acting at it, knowing that it wasn't going to be my life; doing a good job of it more to prove something to myself than to serve others. This was possible because I knew that I could stop doing the job at any time, that it didn't define me; that although I wasn't in the billionaire class, neither was I born to be a maid.

Now though, the experience of having been so comprehensively, selfishly and thoroughly used and abused by Karsh, of cooking for Karsh, all but naked, my ass alternately swatted and fondled at will, of being offered to Ninotsch like a party favour, all this had changed me.

I knew, now, as a bodily experience, what it was to be in someone's power, to serve because you have no option, to be consumed by the need to serve well, to satisfy, from fear rather than from self-motivation - and what it felt like when you cannot afford to trust your own judgement - when a capricious master is the only judge that matters.

I had learned what it was to be subservient, without any choice in matters that affected me deeply.

This new knowledge made simple acts, like putting up a flask of coffee for the kids, or cleaning their ski gear after they'd come in, utterly different. Although on the surface everything looked the much the same, my experience had been transformed. Any time I made some small mistake, nearly missed some patch of dirt, or realised that I had somehow only put one glove in the overnight dryer (did I mention that there was specialist drying equipment for every imaginable kind of outdoor gear - six or eight sets in some cases?) - each time, I felt a strong flash of fear mingled with excitement, as if a spanking or a beating were imminent, as well as the dread thought of incurring Karsh's displeasure.

I said that everything looked the same, but actually, I'm not sure. Perhaps I was more obviously servile, less talkative, more attentive, more eager to assist with any little thing. A couple of times, for sure, this had been obvious, and the children had looked at me, puzzled, so that I retreated, blushing, or became clumsy, fumbled, humiliated. When Karsh was present, this was ten times worse, as he would laugh at me if he noticed. Not cruel laughter, but complacent - satisfied, entertained to see me so flustered. These moments were both distressing - as they made this new experience of servility harder to ignore - and delicious, as any attention from him was now at a premium.

Because my real problem was Karsh. Not that he behaved badly. The opposite, in fact -- he paid me even less attention than before the kids had gone away -- perfectly polite and pleasant when we interacted, otherwise ignoring me, except for those occasional signs that he was watching, that he understood all too well how it was with me.

This was terrible, because he, this man about whom I knew so little (I had googled him, but found very little, and then realised that Ninotsch probably ran checks on internet logs for security and quickly stopped trying), this man had become the centre of my universe, the axis around which my everything turned, the occupier of my thoughts, my god, my demon, my obsession. I wanted his attention, I missed it dreadfully, even though I had only experienced it for a few hours. Those hours had been the brightest, most alive hours I could remember for at least a couple of years, whatever else they had been.

Nevertheless I resented this annexation of my mind dreadfully, even as I was gratefully aware that thinking about him had displaced the previous default for my churning thoughts - the heavy fact of the pointlessness of my existence.

I couldn't help it though; he filled my days, on every level.

At least half of it, shamefully enough (gloriously enough..), was base desire. I wanted him. I wanted his hands on me, in me, his cock inside me, wanted to be naked for him, wanted to display myself for him (I had dared to use the internet to order more fancy lingerie, more daring than before), wanted to kiss him, lick him, have him maul my breasts; yes, even wanted to be spanked by him (even occasionally imagined him thrashing me again).

I had a hard time not doing anything flirty or tarty when we were alone, such as when I took his tea, or when he came into the kitchen while the kids were out. But he had made his rules both clear and firm, and disobeying him had become almost unthinkable, so that I managed, with effort, to hold myself in check, not look at him, carry on with my duties and try not to fumble (suffering his indulgent laughter at my clumsiness when we were alone was a special torment; at those times it took great effort not to simply fall to my knees, lift my skirts and humbly, desperately beg him to fuck me).

But there were other rabbit holes of Karsh obsession, too, dark and light.

The light ones were mostly magical thinking - silly fantasies of the 'Beauty and the Beast' kind - that he would find that what he felt for me was not transient lust and enjoyment in domination, but was in fact real love (so weak I was, so silly); dreams of being installed by him in some Russian castle as his live in maid cum sex pet, living a life of pampered luxury in between exciting games of lust - the stuff of trashy romantic novels, foolish beyond belief, but oh-so seductive, if I could but refrain from pricking the bubble of my own self-delusion..

Which mostly, I could not, thus ushering in the dark, when what filled my thoughts, what tortured me, was the question as to whether I would find myself living my life as some some kind of property, some sort of a slave - whether Karsh would simply choose to keep me; use his unlimited power and obvious ruthlessness to take ownership of me; simply disappear me. It had sunk in how little care he had for rules and norms, and how vulnerable I was, trapped there on the mountain top.

The question of whether I actively wanted him to do this was a second version of this worry. Had I really been 'turned' by 24 hours of intensity? It should have been an easy question to answer - what kind of a person would actively want to be abducted and put to use as a sex slave? But however uncomfortable, however transgressive, however horrific, I often found myself imagining the scene, when, in a few days time, once the children had left to return to their billionaire class boarding schools, I was booked to remain at the chalet for the the following week, with just Karsh to look after (or would it be Karsh and Ninotsch? Just to be having to consider such questions was madness - utter madness!).

These thoughts tended to run along very dark lines indeed, as I imagined K, turning back from waving the helicopter off, simply grabbing me by the hair, throwing me down, violently stripping me and plowing my ass. Then, having sated his pent-up lust, he would fit me with chains and drag me into the chalet's extensive cellar to thrash me with a horsewhip..

At this point, if I was alone, one hand would be at my crotch, the other grasping my breast, and I'd be bucking my hips and panting, so hot did this grim fantasy get me.

But then, within a minute or two there would come some call, some requirement, and I'd be straightening myself, putting my 'efficient, unflappable, ever helpful Timmy' face back on and preparing myself for duty, unsure whether I'd been rescued or cruelly distracted.

The third flavour of dark may strike you as strange - at least that I describe it as dark; it consisted of imagining my life should Karsh decide that he had no wish to keep me after his stay at the chalet was over.

Although in theory, this should have been the happiest imaginable outcome, the one where I escaped with some exciting, intense memories, but got my freedom back, in point of fact it was impossible for me to consider this without the deepest gloom and self-loathing settling on me.

Where, a week before, I had been ready to grit my teeth and return to university, have another go at coping with the meaninglessness, I now found this unimaginable, and would stray to dark thoughts of suicide, or deliberately addicting myself to heroin, or some other pathetic self-destructive cop out.

This, then was the routine of those days, which pressed in on me increasingly. One shocking incident broke in on it, and near destroyed me.

On the fourth day, the kids had gone out early, being taken by helicopter, long before the lifts began running, to some high and inaccessible point, from there to run many kilometres down to the bottom of the snow-line - some famous route that they had been talking about. They'd be gone all day.

I'd been up earlier, of course, readying their gear and their supplies, and they had got off as planned. I was tired, both from the early start but also from lack of good sleep - strong sexual dreams kept waking me, to add to my disquiet. Karsh had gone with them for once, so that a quiet day was promised, with a late return - they were to eat in a fancy hotel restaurant in some old fort just above the big town in the valley.

I was on my own in the kitchen, trying to be busy, trying not to think, when I heard someone come in, noisily.

A few seconds later, Ninotsch appeared, laden with gear - presumably for some new setup. He seemed confused to see me at first, then embarrassed, then far too friendly, stammering his false bonhomie, forgetting his English - fairly obviously unable to process what he had done to me only a few days ago, unsure how to interact with me now, and obviously desperate just to get away into the study to bury himself in work - some weird parallel of my own experience, I supposed, but I didn't really care. I didn't hate him personally, but the experience with him had been amongst the hardest to think about, these past days, and I wanted as little reminder of it as he seemed to.

I was glad when he went, and glad to hear the study door close - it was quite soundproof - perhaps I'd be able to ignore him, forget he was there.

Fat chance; just seeing him had brought every minute detail back; being presented to him, that first time, naked but for a scrap of an apron, high heels and stockings, cooking his breakfast, having to offer myself to him at Karsh' bidding, tell him he could hurt me if he wanted, him forcing his cock into my mouth so clumsily, then orgasming for him, on my hands and knees, while being hammered from behind, like an animal ...

My knees go weak, and I have to hold on to the worktop for a while, then get myself a glass of water, fighting back the tears, feeling my breasts swell, the nipples tighten, hating my reactions, hating Ninotsch (why not Karsh?), hating myself.

And then there was a sound, and I looked up to see Ninotsch, a strange expression on his face, walking quickly towards me, hand out.

Oh my God.

It was clear what he intended - no words were spoken, and it was also quickly clear, that I somehow lacked any will to defend myself, simply saying softly, 'No, no no.." as he rather carefully unbuttoned my blouse, flipped up my skirt, pulled my brassiere up and my panties down, and opened his flies. Then he calmly hooked his right hand under my thigh, lifted me back onto the worktop edge, and stuck himself straight into me.

All this took perhaps a minute at most, during time I was ineffectively pushing, weakly slapping at his shoulders, which he ignored; other than that I did nothing but plead softly and begin to weep. It had occurred to me that since he had been encouraged to use me the other day that this might be legitimate - that perhaps Karsh had told him I was available for fucking while the house was empty - perhaps I would be punished for resisting, perhaps I was supposed to be offering myself, opening myself.. I hoped that wasn't so, but I wasn't really confident - nothing that had happened recently followed rules I understood.

But as he entered me I knew, with shame, that he would find me well lubricated - the way my thoughts have kept running, I have been mildly aroused much of the time. Although I was touching myself a great deal, I had for some reason been unable to properly masturbate, so that the combination of constant dark sexual imaginings, regular self stimulation and no release had me mostly in a state of near readiness, which made it easy for Nino as he thrust away at me, going at it like a jackhammer, just as he had before, with no subtlety at all, just fucking my hole.

He was getting close, it seemed, from the grunting (this time, I was unmoved, accepting, but not responding), when there came new noises of arrival, voices.

Both of us froze for a second, then panicked; Nino pulled back, frantically attempting to put his large, stiff cock away, while I was buttoning my blouse, fingers clumsy in my frenzy, too many buttons, both of us almost comically trying to be silent about it, when the boy walked right in.

He saw immediately what had been happening, and stopped dead, looked intently at me for a few seconds, then down, which is when I realised that my skirt had not gone down when I'd flapped at it, and that my sex was on display, all pink and glistening, the pantie gusset pushed aside; his face reddened abruptly, then he turned on his heel and walked out.

Silent, assuming that I was done for, biting my lips to hold back hysterical tears, I continued to put myself back together, as did Ninotsch. What else was there to do?

The silence outside was ominous, but there was no shouting. Low voices only, and then someone going upstairs.

A few seconds later, Karsh came in. He looked quickly at me - now superficially decent - and then at Ninotsch. He didn't look angry, particularly, but there was something cold about his eyes that I hadn't seen before.

He spoke rapidly to Nino in Russian, rather low. I didn't catch much - it seemed to be dialect, or slang. Nino went white, started to speak, was silenced by a word and stood flushed, weak, obviously frightened, working to keep control of himself.

There was a long silence while Karsh got himself a glass of water, his movements calm and perfectly normal; he drank, then turned to me and asked in a soft voice;

"What happened?"

What to say? Would he take his man's side? I was temporary, a whore, effectively; would I be believed? On the other hand, if not the truth, then what? What was Karsh' expression? What did he want? It was impossible to tell - he looked as calm as if he had been asking what was planned for dinner.

I on the other hand was trembling like a leaf, frightened, horribly ashamed, feeling unbearably degraded; I could hardly trust myself to speak at all - there was little chance I could invent some alternative version of the situation and in any case, why should I? Such are the weak thoughts of a girl who values herself at less than nothing.

He was waiting, not impatient at all. Ninotsch was watching me, fixated, white, his face working, obviously terrified. But I couldn't save him - didn't know how.

Just tell your truth.

"He .. came in, fast, from the study; didn't, didn't say anything, just, just started to undo my clothes. I .. I couldn't .. couldn't stop him; too, too weak, didn't ..didn't know if .. (it was so hard to say this, so hard..) .. if he was .. I I was supposed to .. if you wanted him .. to.. Then, then he was f-fucking me until we heard the door.. Not .. not long.."

There were tears on my cheeks now, and I felt like dirt. To say out loud that I had considered it possible that I had been assigned for use by Ninotsch, that I would have accepted such a thing if it had been true was entirely different from thinking it privately. I was ready to sink into the ground, to dissolve.

I had been staring at Karsh's feet, but I had to brave a quick glance, had to know what was in his eyes. He was doing the looking through me thing again, but he didn't seem angry - the cold glint wasn't there.

More silence. Nino began to breathe, audibly - he was getting hysterical, perhaps. I didn't care; I was looking at Karsh. Somehow his steady gaze was calming me, making me feel less panicky, safe.

"Get the large chopping block, and the biggest knife - a cleaver, if there is one. Light the gas, put a large knife in the flame"

Nino gasped, began to babble in Russian, stumbling over justifications, nasty things about me - clearly willing to say anything to stop whatever it was that he expected.

I did as I was told. What else was there to do? I was the chalet girl, and effectively Karsh's slave - as an emotional reality if not as a result of any explicit event. It's no excuse, I suppose, but it's what happened.

Karsh shut Nino up with some guttural words, something along the lines of;

"Be a man, take your hit. Otherwise it will be worse."

The block was laid on the heavy rustic table, right over the solid corner leg, and Nino, trembling, took himself in hand and stepped forward, to lay his left hand on the block, the fingers curled under, with the exception of the pinky.

Karsh checked the knife in the flame - it was a dull red now.

It took only a few seconds.

Karsh took the cleaver from me, almost casually, lifted it, Nino closed his eyes and let out a low, keening wail, shivering more violently, and then with a thunk, followed by an anguished shout, the cleaver took his finger, almost unbelievably neatly, right at the knuckle join with the palm. Only the blood told you that it had ever been there - that and the finger itself, twitching grotesquely in a growing pool of red.

Now Karsh took the knife, lifted Nino's hand, and pressed the glowing blade flat onto the red oval where the finger had been. Nino screamed, while Karsh's body briefly tensed, betraying the strength he was deploying to keep hand and knife together, without movement, and then relaxed, letting Nino go, carefully placing the knife where it could safely cool, turning off the gas, a man doing a simple practical task with care and precision.

There was a smell of seared meat, that turned the stomach when you thought of what it was that had burned.

Nino was crying now, trying not to, but sobbing, swearing at himself under his breath, falling to his knees. Instinct kicked in, and I rushed for a clean cloth and began to wrap it, tightly over his hand, pressing hard.

Karsh was already at the door, calm as ever;

"Clean that up, then come straight to the study, please. Bring tea. Don't speak to this piece of shit. He will be gone very shortly - you won't see him again."

I couldn't look at Nino any more, couldn't bear to be near him, and turned to get cleaning kit. I heard him stand, stifle another sob, then almost run from the room, from the chalet. I never saw him again, as promised. He took his finger.

The clean-up was simple - almost nothing to it. I put the bloody cloths to one side, somehow knowing that these would be burnt, rather than laundered, and wiped everything down with disposable cloths. I'd never thought about any of this, but I suppose we have all seen forensic police programmes now. I protected Karsh (not that he needed my help, realistically). I did. I was his, now, I knew it in my bones. He had done that to Nino for using me without permission, and so I belonged to him. The logic makes no sense written down, but it was relentless and to me indisputable; a done deal.