 |
|||
|
|
The Heir to the Throne. (Part 2).
By ninja5
Introduction.
Alison looked at the English girls on the Nation line of the Metro. Three of the four were still in uniform. They were playing hooky from their Friday classes to spend the weekend in Paris. They were bubbles and curls; innocence and sexual delight bundled into conservative attire. The one Alison was interested in looked a little older, of age and delightful, only the uniform gave her away as not being an older sister or chaperone to one of the other girls. She had long brown hair and high cheek bones. She was tall; slender, but has wonderful muscle tone; firm by youth. The girls were huddled around a vacant seat on the train checking every pocket for loose change, or a forgotten tenner. They were pooling their resources to get in somewhere. Alison smiled at the fearless freedom with which they lived. Their parents probably didn’t even know they were in Paris for the weekend.
Her station, Bel-Air, was next. A good minute from the stop she rose as the train started to decelerate. She approached the girls and clasped the handrail on the cubicle they sat in. One girl looked up, then the other three including the English beauty. Alison smiled. From her jacket pocket she pulled a hundred Euro note and lowered it to their pile of spare change and pocket money. All four girls’ eyes were on the note, greater in value than their combined wealth. Decoyed by the tease she releases her hand from the handrail and glided the tip of her finger over the beauties collar undetected. The tiny GPS tracker stuck and as she dropped the note all four eyes looked up at their benefactor.
“Profitez de petits” (Enjoy little Misses), Alison said and the start of her stations platform flashed past the window as the train pulled back to stop.
The girls were stunned. Perhaps they didn’t speak French. Alison dipped her head and took her leave. As she exited the train one of the school girls, clearly over the surprise, called out to her. “Merci beaucoup.” Alison skipped off the train delighted with her flawless execution. “Merci.” Three other voices chased.
Alison reached into her purse and pulled out her phone. She glided the screen across and clicked on ‘The App’. A white screen came up with a text box. She nearly bumped into a man as she walked and concentrated on the screen. She typed the GPS trackers serial into the phone. A menu appeared. She clicked ‘Activate’; on another screen, ‘Retrieve’. She exited the App and put her phone away in time to pull out her Metro pass to exit into Paris above.
Somewhere; someone would receive her activation. They would track the girl and when she was vulnerable retrieve her for Alison. Alison was a chef for a Society of people with exotic tastes. She had a Spit Roast booked for Sunday evening. The girl she had tagged was the perfect spit-muffin; long legs, thin waist, perfect small mounds of breasts. Alison allowed herself a smile at the thought of roasting her. She truly enjoyed her work.
Chapter 1. Breach.
Cold grey stone sculptured in pre-revolution style. That was about as much of it as Alison understood of the buildings architecture. The building was cold, grey, hard stone on the outside, but warm and opulent inside. She walked up the stairs to the front entrance. She had been inside the security office to identify someone who had arrived for an appointment, tricked into coming for dinner (as dinner; to be honest). She knew a computer scanned the image of her face. A bunch of dots and triangles appeared on the projected monitor and then when it had confirmed she was Alison…. (Alison hadn’t gotten used to having a last name yet. She kept forgetting it) Bridges, the door slide open without her having to pause or hit the intercom button. As she passed the thick glass doors she approached the metal detector and its guard. Alison smiled at him. He did not smile back. She handed him her purse and then stepped through. It beeped. The guard sighed. He stepped forward and ran the paddle over her. It beeped, as it did every time at her waist.
Alison’s smile grew.
Alison grew up in a green, heavenly garden in the desert. When Alison came of age she was taken aside by the only adult man with the freedom to talk to her. He told her she was beautiful and talented. He told her he would like her to cook for The Society. She had shown a flair for it. Alison was put into quarters with two other girls and sent to work in the kitchen. As Alison studied and learnt to cook she became happy with her station. One of her counterparts did not. The last day Alison saw her she had been pierced; a tiny silver stud in her clitoris. Alison had thought it neat. Jewelry was prized by all servants. The girl with the piercing disappeared, taken to the Conservatory. Alison always remembered the tiny piercing. When she had finished her training she was sent to travel with a French Master as he traveled and worked. She was chaperoned. She learnt fast and it wasn’t long before she was head chef at the bequest of the Society. The need for a chaperone ceased and she was trusted to have liberty of movement. She acclimated to the real world and soon was traveling herself to cook for the always satisfied members of the Society she was owned by. On achieving her status, her first reward to herself was the piercing she had seen on that girl who hadn’t made it as a chef.
Alison unzipped her trousers and lowered her panties. The guard glanced at the piercing (he had to check) and waved her on. He wasn’t impressed by it, but Alison loved people seeing it. Had she not learnt it was not etiquette she would have shown it to everyone? She gave the guard another smile and he didn’t make eye contact. It was a matter of pride for her that one day he would enjoy peaking at her silver stud.
She walked on to the elevator ahead. The pewter doors slide open and inside she just stood. Security would direct the lift to the appropriate floor without her having to press a button. The doors closed and the old lift gave a jerk as it moved up. Tinny elevator music played. It only played during the day, to common for occasions. Alison had been booked for three dinners in this building. The occasion brought mostly French members of the Society, but on the second event the clientele had grown having heard rave reviews. Alison was respectable in growing fame. Her culinary skills where known and being endorsed justifying the Societies investment in her liberties. She was immaculate in presentation and elegant in method. The door chimed and opened on the dining hall. The evenings waiters where at work dressing the tables. As Alison walked out and past them they chimed “Matiresse du matin” (Good morning Mistress). Alison nodded and glanced over the table in a quick check. The silver cutlery, napkins and plates where all in model of fine dining. Without the need to direct the waiters she moved on to the kitchen.
The double hinges flexed with ease and Alison stepped into her domain. Four attendants, two of which were trainee chefs for the Society, all paused in their actions and stood at attention. “Pour travaier” (To work), Alison said not allowing formalities to get in the way of the necessary work. She moved to the far corner of the room and assessed their progress and preparations as she removed her jacket and started to disrobe. The three women who were to be the main course where strapped to their silver trays under adjustable grills. The grills covered the buttocks, legs and feet of the three young women as they lay belly down. All three were selected for their long muscular and shapely legs and fine rears. One of the trainees darted from girl to girl basting the cooking legs to keep the skin moist. As only the legs and buttocks where cooked and the three women were guaranteed to be served live. They were writhing in agony, sweet cries of pain coming from their gags. Alison firmly believed, as her teacher had, that pain added to the flavor of the meal.
Before Alison put on her checkered pants and white doubled breasted jacket she called out in French, “Don’t let the feet dry out and brown, the quests tonight will fight for that meat.” Without looking up at Alison the trainee shifted his routine and compensated by liberally basting the neglected souls of the women’s feet. She did up her jacket and shifted her attention to the other trainee. He was busy readying the special press. “How long has she been roasting” she said to him as she put on her final piece of uniform, her toque.
“Since 09:00.” He replied, also in French. French was the language of the kitchen staff. Other servants of the Society spoke English. It was largely to keep the Societies servants from knowing the discussions of the chefs and kitchen hands as they frequently discussed how they would cook individual members of the servantile. Frequently servants assisted in the preparations of dinners for which they were to be the main course. The segregation by language kept panic from setting in and elevated the kitchen staff above normal status.
“Roasting temperature?” Alison asked. She had left specific instructions, but had to check her trainee’s had not become inventive and alerted her recipe.
“Preheated to Two-hundred degrees. Basted in olive oil and covered in salt. Cook for fifteen minutes then temperature turned down to One-hundred and twenty five degrees. Cooked for one hour and forty-five minutes and then temperature cranked to two-hundred and twenty-five fifteen minutes ago.” Alison’s instructions had been followed to the letter. I digital timer beeped signaling the roast could be taken from the oven.
“Bring her out.” Alison said and readied herself. Fille à la Rouennaise was her signature dish. She had pioneered it from experiments with leftovers borrowed from banquets during her training. She encouraged those under her to do the same.
The trainee leant down and opened the oven. Steam and a delicious savory smell filled the air. Alison took a deep breath through her nose and marveled at the flavor. The trainee pulled the oven tray out and it glided along the rollers. A whimpering girl, dazed by the heat, appeared. She was partially roasted, not slender and toned liked the main course girls, but plump and juicy. Her fatty tissues had started to liquefy with the heat and Alison could tell she was ready for harvesting. Alison clicked her fingers and the two other attendants turned. She gestured with her index finger to one of them and her stopped chopping vegetables for the side dishes and came over to help the trainee lift the partially roasted girl onto the prep table. With a grunt of efficiency the two helpers lifted the girl onto the table and Alison brandishes a stainless steel carving knife. The set it came from cost more than a car and they were wrought in Japan. A gift from an admirer.
Alison gave the plump girl her full attention. She smiled at her terror filled eyes. It was her belief she was granting the girl a boon. Allowing her to become something exquisite. The trainee stood by her side. Alison tutored him and commenced. “Slice the flesh in hand size portion taking care to avoid arteries.” She made good on her instructions and a gagged scream filled the kitchen. Alison took the first handful of partially cooked meat and placed it in a silver bowl. “Do not waist any of the juices.” She used a small spatula to collect the juices the flowed from the wound and drizzled them into the bowl. She moved over to the press and tipped the contents into the piston. She closed the lid and once sealed twisted the vice on the lid. The piston compressed the meat and crimson sauce decanted from the bottom into another bowl. All the juices were extracted from the meat to make the sauce. Alison sampled it with her finger. She licked her lips and with a movement of her head indicated her trainee was to do the same. He sampled it and his eyes widen in admiration as he looked at Alison. “Harvest her, decant the sauce.” She was entrusting her trainee. She could see the pressure of the task both stress and flatter him. He hasten to the plump girl and started work and fleshing her to get the partial roasted meat for the sauce. Some of the sauce would be drizzled over the cooked legs of the three girls, but most would be placed in gravy boats at the tables for the guests to opulently lather over their meat to taste.
Alison stepped back and surveyed the kitchen. She smiled to herself. The kitchen was filled with the moans of agony, sizzling marinate and clomp of knives chopping vegetables. All was in order. This was her universe.
Something sensed and out of place struck Alison. It was a gut feeling and she didn’t immediately know what it was. Then it came again. Shadows wavered under the doors of the kitchen and the clink of cutlery being laid had ceased in the dining room. The door bumped open slightly and a black disc that looked like a hockey puck was slide inside. It rested three meters past the door. Alison wasn’t the only one who saw it in the split second before a loud bang, smoke and a blinding flash lit up the kitchen.
Alison closed her eyes violently and crouched in surprise. There was a loud thud as the door was kicked open and a man shouted. “Breach.” Alison opened her eyes but saw only stars and shadowy monsters dress in bulky black full body suits. One came right at her pointing something. Alison started to scream but the shadow grabbed her and threw her to the ground. She felt the floor rise up and strike her and jarred at the impact. Her arm was twisted behind her back and then she heard one of her attendants cry out. A loud crack sounded, a gunshot, and the white uniformed figure flopped to the ground like a rag doll. All this Alison saw through a daze. She closed her eyes and screamed. The shadow holding her down jerked her arm to make her stop. She blinked her eyes and the six pairs of boots storming around her kitchen stood offensively pointing guns at the remaining kitchen hands. On the black uniforms of the gunmen Alison read the white label: Police.
“This is all wrong.” Alison thought but any further thought was cut off by one of the officers.
“Jesus Christ they’re cooking people.”
Alison tried to struggle but her arm was twisted tighter. This is all wrong.
Chapter 2. Out of the Frying Pan.
Alison sat in the concrete interrogation room. Her hands were cuffed by a long chain that was thread through a steel eyelet on the table, which was in turn bolted to the floor. She was very, very nervous. She was not fearful of the outsiders who had bought her here. She would say nothing, do nothing. What Alison was afraid of was her own kind. The Servants of the Society would undoubtedly silence her now that their world had been seen by the outsiders who held her.
The door to the room opened and a muscular man in khaki pants and a dark blue sleeveless shirt walked in with a file. Moments later he was followed by a short, middle aged woman in a business skirt and white shirt. The skirt came down past her knees, but showed portly unshaved legs. Alison’s brain dismissed her as meat out of habit. A reflex despite her apprehension. The two people sat in front of her. The man looked at the file whilst the woman stared coldly at Alison. There was another minute’s silence.
“Miss Alison Bridges?” The man looked over the file and stared at Alison. Disgust was visible on his face and tainted his French accent as he spoke to her in English.
Alison said nothing.
“Please confirm your identity as Alison Bridges.” The policeman, obviously a detective, continued his stare at her.
Alison felt very alone. A tear rolled down her cheek and she said nothing.
“Several pieces of identification in the room you were arrested in identify you as an American; Alison Bridges.” The detective pulled a photo print of an open passport and Alison’s photo concession card and placed it before her.
Alison dipped her head. This was very bad.
“What were you doing in that kitchen Miss Bridges?” The detective retrieved the photo that held Alison’s gifted identity and tucked it back in his file.
What could she say?
The short women detective kicked Alison’s leg under the table.
Alison startled and gave the woman a terror filled glance, but her attention was immediately drawn back to the male detective.
“The four women rescued from the kitchen have all been taken to Bicêtre Hospital. The women who had been in the oven is dying. The other three are in a critical condition, but may survive.” He paused for a moment and snarled at Alison. “You will be charged with at least one count of murder. If you want the Judge to consider mercy you best co-operate. What was happening in that kitchen?”
Alison dipped her head again, and again the police woman kicked her in the leg under the table. This time Alison didn’t look up. She felt another tear escape. There was no coming back from this position. Anything she said would have drastic consequences for her. Not jail time. Every Servant in the Society had heard of the Pain slaves. Those not allowed to die and kept in agony till old age as examples. If Alison kept quiet she could expect a knife in jail or a sniper as she was walked to a prison transport. Those were her best options.
A knock came at the interview door. The male detective closed Alison’s file a rose opening the door a crack. In French a voice said “Her lawyer is here” through the crack.
“She didn’t ask for a lawyer!” The detective said startled and glanced over at Alison.
Her head rose and a slender man with thin hair and round spectacles walked through the door carrying a brief case. He did not return Alison’s stare but sat next to her and placed his briefcase by his side. The male detective took his seat again and looks were exchanged between the lawyer and the two detectives.
The male detective flipped his hands. “Do you need to speak with your client?” He asked. The Lawyer was obviously dirty having come to represent Alison without her having made a phone call. It also hinted at a conspiracy.
“Charges?” The slender Lawyer asked. He clearly understood English, but his accent was very heavy.
“Four counts of accessory to kidnapping; four counts of aggravated assault and causing grievous bodily harm; and we told very soon, at least one count of murder.” The detective snarled the last word. His contempt was obvious.
“Has she made any statements?” He looked at Alison and then at the detectives.
They both looked at him. “She hasn’t said a word.” The male said.
“Good.” The slender lawyer took off his spectacles. “Here is what is going to happen.” He took on the appearance snake retracting after spraying venom. “When I have finished talking there will be a knock at that door.” He pointed to the door of the interview room. “A DGSE agent will be outside accompanied by your Police Commissioner. They will tell you to relinquish all evidence in this case; cease all investigations; and release Miss Alison Bridges into my custody. You will be informed this is a matter of National security and that you are forbidden to discuss it.”
The two detectives stared back baffled, but then a knock came from the door. The male detective rose and opened it a crack and then opened it all the way. A formally dress policemen with many shiny bobbles and tassels and a man in a black business suite whispered in French at the male detective. The female detective turned in disbelief. The lawyer waited until they had finished speaking and as he closed the door grabbed his suitcase and rose.
“I will be waiting for her out front.” He clicked his heals as if he were military and headed for the door.
Alison exchanged glances with the two stunned detectives, and then she kicked the female detectives shin from under the table.
Chapter 3. Into the Fire?
Alison had clothes she had been wearing that morning on the train clothes returned to her. As she pulled on her knickers she looked down at her naked clitoral hood. They had taken her stud. The tiny hole of the piercing made Alison feel striped of status. “What now” she thought and turned and walked out of the room to the police women escort. The cops didn’t know what to make of the transfer of those they had arrested at the scene. As she was walked out past the front counter she saw the male and female detectives arguing with the Commissioner. They had followed orders and promptly, but now they wanted and explanation. The male continued to yell, clearly agitated whilst the female detective turned her head and glared at Alison. Alison looked away, forward, to the lawyer standing by the entrance. She was walked through the metal detector. It had beeped on her coming though and the stud had been discovered and taken. The escort stopped outside and Alison tentatively walked over to the slender lawyer. He waited for her naturally. The clerk at the front desk nodded to the lawyer and raised a zip lock bag. It contained Alison personal effects. The lawyer stepped forward and took it. Alison could see her tiny stud in the bottom corner of the bag. The Lawyer took the effects and as he turned grabbed Alison firmly by the arm.
“Come; before there is trouble.”
Alison gave way to his tug and let herself be pulled along. The entrance door slide open and she walked out into the afternoon sun. A black limonene pulled up along front. Alison realized she was being guided towards it. Already parked she could see her surviving kitchen hands and the waiting staff lined up. They were still in their uniforms having no other clothes to change into. They were lined up boarding a white mini bus. A group of police officers in black t-shirts and trousers watched the procession in disgust. Alison wondered if they were the masked men who had burst into the kitchen.
The lawyer stepped forward and opened the door for Alison. She stepped in and the lawyer followed, shutting the door behind her. Alison sat with her back to the driver. The lawyer lent forward in his seat and tapped the window separating the driver twice. The limousine pulled away and drifted in amongst the traffic.
The lawyer looked into open space. He said nothing.
Alison still didn’t know what was going on. She looked at the zip lock bag with want. “Can I?” She reached for the bag.
The lawyer looked coldly at her and folded the bag away out of reach.
Alison frowned like a puppy scolded.
The limousine traveled in silence for several blocks. The lawyer finally pressed the bottom on the intercom to the driver. “Are we being followed?” He asked.
“No.” Came back the brief reply.
“Drive to the plaza.” The slender lawyer commanded and undid his seat belt.
Alison was fearful he would leave with her things. “Can I have my…….”
The slender lawyer glared at her as if she was to blame for all the trouble in the world.
Alison cringed, but did not have to endure his company long. They pulled in at an open space outside a tall modern building. It was one Alison had not seen on her exploration of the city. As the limousine pulled to a stop the slender lawyer shuffled across the seat and opened the door and got out leaving the door ajar. He left the bag containing Alison things on the chair. As Alison reached over to get them she startled back as a man in his late thirties climbed into the car. He smiled at Alison. He had perfect white teeth. He was tall and his black hair was speckled with a few greys. He had a deep cleft in his chin and long dimples in his slender cheeks.
“Miss Alison Bridges?” He sat in the seat and put his seatbelt on. Alison’s belongings now lay at his side.
Alison sat back and stared at the man with growing confusion.
“Do you know me Alison?” His tone was charming and he followed Alison gaze to the bag. He picked it up, examined it, and then opened the bag. Removing Alison passport and concession card. He hand the rest to her.
Alison forgot the question. She shuffled past the money and phone and her fingers fiddled in the corner of the bag at the stud.
The man watched intrigued.
Alison fingers clasped the stud and she removed it, tossing the bag aside. Without self consciousness she undid and then pulled down her pants. With one hand she stretched out the elastic of her knickers and guided the pin of the stud to the tiny hole made for it. She fastened the holder of the stud and presented herself. Only after her security blanket was back did she give the man her attention. He seemed to have enjoyed the show.
“Do you know me Alison?” He repeated, this time received, and beamed an enchanted smile at Alison.
He reminded Alison of one of those men in commercials for shavers or aftershaves. Alison shook her head signaling she did not know him.
“My name is Arnaud Brink and I had the pleasure of sampling your talents last Saturday.”
Alison nodded. The man had just let her know he was Society.
“Let me reassure you that you have become an asset to the Society and you are in no danger of being retired.
Alison nodded again. Relieved and then guilty. The other Servants arrested with her and taken from the police station in the white bus might not have been so lucky.
“The Society was briefly exposed to outsiders today; the full consequences of that have not yet been determined. The situation is under control, but it does leave us with a predicament; you’re face is known to be associated with a crime. It creates a complication.”
Alison had been reassured by the man, so felt best to remain silent. He would tell her what was to become of her shortly.
“I have taken it upon myself to clean up the situation you were court up in and those who appreciate my efforts have seen fit to grant me access to your skills until the situation can be fully resolved.”
Alison thought she nodded, but her returning apprehension meant that in fact she didn’t. The man before her picked up on this and Alison’s uncertainty created a discontinuity in her mind.
“Do you understand Alison?” The man asked.
“You’re going to eat me.” Alison replied, but had no defensive posture. She had just become aware of the hungry look in the man’s eyes as he stared at her. She had been told by men from the outside that she was beautiful, but had never taken the liberty of exploring men’s interest in her.
“No. You’re going to cook for me.”
Alison forced a smile. She felt a catch coming. She realized she was losing her liberty as a consequence of outsiders knowing her face.
“I have a vineyard in the countryside; you will reside there and I will join you on weekends. You will train my kitchen staff and present me and my guests with meals of the highest caliber.” The man dipped his head.
Alison calmed. It seemed simple enough a task for her.
“Now. We have a long drive ahead of us. Why don’t you tell me the tale of how you invented that dish you served last Saturday.” The man sat back and waited for Alison to relax into conversation. He listened intently and did not talk down to her. The four hour drive was pleasant and Alison fell into comfort as the man seduced her into familiarity.
Chapter 4. The Vineyard Roi.
“It’s so green.” Alison had never really been in the country of…. anywhere. The vineyard was speckled with people harvesting grapes and pruning the vines. Alison knew a great deal about the harvesting of grapes - of most food really, but she had never seen it before. “Is the Estate rustic?” Arnaud had relaxed and praised her to a chirpy optimism.
“No.” He said with a smile. “The Estate this vineyard houses is quiet modern.” Arnaud looked away for a moment. “I tore the old House down and built a new one.”
“Oh.” Alison noted the lull in her new benefactor’s demeanor. Had she had a family of her own she would have realized Arnaud family was a matter of trepidation for him. In her ignorance of experience she still surmised that she’d best not mention family again. “I like it.”
“Good. You are free to roam the vineyard, but I ask you to stay within its grounds.” Arnaud recovered from his momentary lapse. You will have a room and access to any room you like.” Arnaud smiled at her jestingly. “Do you require companionship?”
Alison blushed. “No”, she said sweetly and her bashfulness showed. Alison had never taken that liberty of her freedom. What status she had she could not carry over into the bedroom and sex seemed a demotion of her status.
“Pretty young woman like you? Really?” He was testing the waters. Alison’s inexperience was evident and very appealing to Arnaud. He would take her in time, he was sure of it. “The House has a small staff of Servants. You will not know them at first, but they will know of you. If they do not treat you well you may utilize them in your cooking. The two permanent guards will be instructed to follow any command you give them. The two kitchen hands speak French as well as English. Please discuss all culinary affairs in French”
Alison nodded enthusiastically as the car broke away from the brown vines and green leaves to a glass and aluminum mansion the extended over a steep decline. Alison was used to opulence, but had never had a permanent residence before. Her first opinion was, ‘very rich’ as all the lavish buildings she had stayed in had been more than just weekend retreats. Arnaud stepped out of the vehicle as Alison peered out and up at her new home. As she scanned the windows to see their end her door opened and a bald, fat man was standing expectantly. Her wore a grey suit and tie, but looked mean. Alison cringed away from him. He stood still, not gesturing for her to get out. Arnaud tapped the roof of the limousine and Alison jumped, and then shuffled out the door. The bald man closed it behind her and she was left standing in the cool breeze. She looked at Arnaud for instruction.
“Alison, this is Edmond.” Arnaud said gesturing to the bald man.
Alison forced a smile.
Edmond was blank in response.
“See to it the Alison is obeyed. You and Harris particularly. Understand?”
Edmond nodded and Arnaud smiled.
“Come Alison, I want to give you the grand tour.” Arnaud guided Alison up only a single step and through a glass door with silver handles. The interior of the Mansion was perfect in temperature and Alison could already see that different the entrance represented the base design on the manner in soft tones and sleek furniture, but some of the rooms partially visible through a myriad of doorways presented different themes. It was as though Arnaud had had a series of decorators, each never quiet finishing their work. Arnaud moved into his house and Alison followed close at his heals like a puppy.
“I will show you the kitchen first. Take note of anything you need. Think on this. I would like to get it set up for you as soon as possible.”
“Is there a Housekeeper?” Alison had to ask.
“I don’t believe in such people Alison. If your question is too the hierarchy, please think of yourself as the most senior member of staff. I want no one to interfere with your creative process.”
Alison allowed herself a little smile. There was no one to punish her for misdeeds.
They slid through room after room and into a large open dining room that sat far out over the hill on stilts most likely. Alison had not seen this side of the Mansion. “This is the room you will present in Alison.” Arnaud said her name a lot as a means in signifying her identity.
Alison looked around the room. The glass wall made it seem as if you could walk out into the horizon and the lighting would be perfect as evening with the sun setting in the background. The table top was thick glass, a mauve color at its edges due to the nature of the glass. The furnishing were black with grey-blue upholstery and on the side behind Arnaud was a portrait of a French nobleman; the only antique in the room. She stared at it.
“Charles, Duke of Guise.” Arnaud seemed pleased that she was drawn to the painting. “An ancestor from the Sixteenth Century.” Though Alison seemed intrigued by the painting he knew she did not get the statement of it being placed behind his seat at the table. ‘I am my ancestor’s heir’ was what it said and it faced the two kitchen doors. He waited until her intrigue subsided and then smiled. “To your studio my little artist friend.” Arnaud gestured to the double doors and Alison walked towards them.
As the standard Society double kitchen doors easily pushed open she was met by sterile and polished stainless steel; whimpering of distress; and distant French chattering from behind the multitude of shelves and cardboards at the back. Arnaud walked in behind her and gently guide her forward with a hand on her back as Alison took the kitchen in. The whimpering came from a tall body covered in a sheet lying on the stainless steel prep table; the French chattering revealed itself as a short, young woman in her kitchen whites appeared. She had a round face and brown hair caught up in her toque. She obviously did not know Arnaud was visiting home as she immediately stood to attention. More French came from behind her and the kitchen staffer looked nervous.
“Les tomates sont pourries. Comments pouvons-nous preparer las sauce africaine avec des tomates pourries. Le Laiter ne comprend pas.” (The tomatoes are rotten. How can we make Sauce Africaine with rotten tomatoes? The Master doesn’t understand.) The slightly tall slender woman with tuffs of red hairs sticking out from beneath her toque who emerged from behind the shelves examining a tomato looked up and grew paler highlighter her red freckles.
Arnaud frowned at the redhead.
Alison immediately understood what was to be done. She stepped forward in her element and examined the tomato. “Laissez-moi voir.” She spoke politely, asking to see. She examined the tomato and immediately turned to Arnaud. “Cela ne va pas.” (This will not do). She had taken charge immediately, not allow for introductions, but also protecting her new staff prior to introduction.
Arnaud played defensive. “Very well. You may send for fresh ones and anything else that is needed.”
Alison handed the tomato back to the redhead and walked back over to Arnaud’s side. Arnaud put his arm around her waist, but not with affection, he was signifying she was important. “Jacquelyn”, he said to the redhead; “Beatrice”, he said to the brunette. “This is Alison Bridges, my new chef. You will follow her instructions and learn from her. Understood?”
The two Servants curtseyed at the pair in synchronicity and stood awaiting instruction.
Arnaud took his hand from Alison side. “I will leave you to get familiar with the kitchen. When you have free time you may explore and choose any room of the House you like. People can be moved for you to be comfortable.”
Alison smiled back politely and Arnaud turned to leave. “One moment.” Alison said. In all her other rolls Alison had been granted the right to assess the subject of her dishes. Since she was taking charge she felt it best to establish that rule as she would not be granted the freedom to select them for herself. She walked over to the prep table as Arnaud waited as requested. Had Alison known him better she would have realized he was being tested by her request. Alison removed the white sheet that covered her subject and revealed the English schoolgirl she had tagged earlier that day lying naked on the cold table. Her fair skin was bespeckled with Goosebumps and she was crying through her gag. She looked at Alison for mercy, a wasted exercise. She turned and smiled at Arnaud. He had intercepted her collection.
Arnaud nodded having composed himself and took his leave in silence. All that remained was for Alison to, with what little time the day had left, prepare the girl for him. She turned to her two new kitchen staff and in French said, “Sauce African will do, we must be quick. Jacquelyn; fetch fresh ingredients.”
Jacquelyn nodded like a soldier and hastened out of the room.
“Beatrice prepare the grill.” Alison glided her finger over the shivering English schoolgirl. “Legs only.” Alison then pointed to the girl’s slender belly. “We will Harvest the rest for the weeks meals after she has been presented to your Master. The school girl did not speak French well so her fate was still a mystery to her. “Pain is important. No pain killer or relief from cooking in my Kitchen.”
Beatrice nodded with the same military nod and hastened of to prepare the grill.
Alison turned to examine the girl more closely. She did not see a beautiful and innocent girl caught in the horror of a kidnapping and slow death. Back in her comfort zone she calculated dishes that could be utilized from her victim so as not to waist anything. Alison did not know where her next specimen would be coming from.
Chapter 5. The Vineyard Roi (Part 2): Jezebel.
The English school girl’s legs were under the grill and Jacqueline had returned to prepare the sauce with fresh ingredients. Alison sampled the unfinished sauce once it was ready to be set to simmer. See knew from experience the flavors would blend correctly. Jacquelyn had experience and most likely she and Beatrice ran the kitchen effectively before her presence. It needed to simmer for a half hour more so she felt she had time to exit the kitchen briefly and shower. Showering meant finding a room and Arnaud had given the impression many were empty. Alison walked out the kitchen into the dining room assuring the two aids that they could continue at leisure. Again, in the dining room, she looked at the portrait of the rose cheeked ancestor of Arnaud’s. She walked out of the dining room into a living space used, most likely, for entertaining guests prior to dinner. She was new to the house so smiled at the beauty lounging on a chest by the sofa. She seemed to be waiting for something, modesty prevent Alison from assuming it was for her to appear. Alison awkwardly walked by the tall slender beauty who followed her progress with a cold, unblinking gaze. Alison hastened. Despites Arnaud giving her status the woman wasn’t dressed like a servant and Alison did not want trouble. She would wait, dependant on Arnaud’s introduction to her.
“Where are you going?” The blonde woman enquired, immediately asserting that Alison had faulted.
Alison stopped dead in her tracks and turn pensively to the woman.
The woman rose gracefully despite her long limbs and walked over to Alison. Her hair was done up with intricate detail and the complementary make up suggested an evening out at a society function. She seemingly knew who Alison was so did not seek further introduction. She asked Alison again. “Where are you going Servant?”
The pride Alison had in her role above Servants was hampered by her ignorance of the woman’s identity; more importantly her status in the House.
“Speak clearly girl” she said despite not being much older than Alison. “You bore me already.”
Alison was use to praise and respect. Inexperience at being talked down to resulted in her saying “I’m looking for a free room.”
“You think the rooms are free.” The woman said and blinked in aristocratic comprehension.
“I… I’m not sure. Arnaud said…”
“You work for your room, so they are not free. Don’t get ahead of yourself and think you have status.” The slender blonde waived her hand and looked perturbed. “Adjourn to the kitchen staffs quarter, because that is what you are.” The woman remained standing confrontationally in front of Alison though she seemingly had little more to say.
Alison started to continue on her way, hesitation in her steps.
“Good heavens if you have to look for it, it will take your forever. Go ask them where it is.” As she said ‘them’ she gestured to the kitchen.
Alison felt gosh. This woman was demoting her status to the kitchen staff. Arnaud had given her the impression she would be senior in the household. There was no house keeper, unless this woman had accepted the role. Her ignorance of the situation meant she had to obey least she get herself in trouble on her first day. Reluctantly she turned and went back into the kitchen.
Beatrice and Jacquelyn both looked up at her expectantly. Alison cringed on the words. “Could you please direct e to your quarters so I may shower”, she said.
She was met with looks of surprise. Jacquelyn looked at Beatrice. Beatrice shook her head as if she immediately understood. “Jezebel.” She said with scorn.
Alison felt even more confused.
Both of the kitchen staff stopped what they were doing and looked at Alison. “Do not obey Jezebel.” Jacquelyn said angrily. Her obvious frustration at the blonde beauty showing anger above her station. “She interferes.” Her explanation was brief. Jacquelyn was busy with the sauce so Beatrice stepped forward and walked signaled for Alison to follow. Beatrice guided her out the doors, past the dining room and lounge and into the maze of hallways. The blonde Jezebel had already disappeared; mischief managed. She started up a set of stairs without a rail to the second floor. As the passed a pair of decorated black doors Beatrice gestured to them and said “The Master’s and Jezebel’s.” Beatrice did not stop and Alison concentrated on memorizing the route shown by Beatrice in a still unfamiliar house. Beatrice paused and waved to the rest of the hall and the seven doors coming of it. “Any of these.”
Beatrice performing her subservient role bought back Alison’s confidence. “Merci.”
Beatrice nodded as if order had been restored and hastened off leaving Alison to inspect the rooms. She did not want one adjacent to Arnaud’s so walked further down the hall. The rooms were near identical, but the ones on the Master’s side all had a view of the vineyard they had driven through. All the rooms had double beds and clean sheets which meant as of yet unseen Maids. The ensuite and vanity looked inviting and Alison striped down after having picked the room viewing the vineyard at the end of the hall. She locked the door. She walked naked into the shower and was free to think for a moment. Hunting; Raid; Detectives; Slender Lawyers; Arnaud; Vineyard; and Jezebel. All this was rapid change were rapid change was not usual. She closed her eyes and buried them in the warm flow of water from the shower head. She stuck with what she knew. She would serve a meal for Arnaud and hopefully be able to request the things she would need.
As she emerged from the shower she dried herself and then walked with her damp towel wrapped around her body. She was not sure but suspected by merely picking up the phone she could hear a voice. She did so. There was no operator but a dial tone. Without a pair her chef’s whites and checkered pants she started to change into her dirty clothes. She put her hair back in a pony tail and head back down the hall hoping she would not bump into the blonde, Jezebel.
Back in the kitchen Alison had not needed to take true charge until she had heard voices muffled in the dining room. The pressure of her task, a thing she loved and flourished in, took hold. She directed Beatrice and Jacquelyn and made the touches on the presentation herself so as to assert her presence. The English school girl was delirious with torment her doing contorting against the silver restraints of her train as she lay semi conscious ready to be served. Alison had made a series of deep parallel cuts alone her thighs and collected the juices to paint over her legs giving them a an oiled like gleam. A trickle of the sauce had been drizzles in a zigzag pattern over her cooked meat, sex and belly. Spinach and rocket surrounded the girl.
A bell rang from the dining room.
“Arreter.” Alison said and summoned her two aids. Alison opened her arms to the meal, “Simple et manifique.” She smiled at both of them signaling they had done good work.
The bell rang again and it was obvious the diners were impatient. Beatrice and Jacquelyn positioned themselves either side of the tray and lifted it between them. Surprisingly they carried the load with ease from practice and carried it out through the loose hinged kitchen doors. Alison was alone to look around the kitchen. She had already decided she would instruct her two new helpers to remain behind tonight to harvest the remnants of the girl. She would insist they experiment of the meat as well. She would rise early for breakfast allowing them to rest. The better they were, the better she would be.
Jacquelyn popped her head through the door and waved her hand for Alison to come. Was something wrong with the dish? Pensively Alison walked too through the doors. The dining room table was filled with the House staff. Arnaud sat at the head, Jezebel to his left side. Edmond sat close to the kitchen opposite another large man Alison guessed was Harris. Beatrice was sitting and Jacquelyn joined her. A collection of Maids Alison had yet not seen all looked at her with expectant glances. Alison was being introduced to the Servants. Arnaud smiled omnipotently at her and gestured to a vacant seat by his right. Alison had never dined at one of her meals. She did not move.
“Please Alison.” He said politely.
Alison forced herself to walk to the seat all eyes on her. As she sat Jezebel glared at her vindictively. Alison ignored her, her actions clarified by instruction from her new Master.
“These are your people now Alison.” Arnaud said. “This place is for entertaining my friends.”
Alison scanned the table. She was met with faces waiting to be obeyed until she came to Jezebel and again was met with scorn.
“Do you understand?” Arnaud polite tone came with retributional responsibility.
Alison felt nervous. With the events of the day she could not remember the countless kitchens she had run and her burgeoning success. Fortunately her tiny voice of pride sounded in her head and she smiled. With all these staff following instructions she could started to create with total freedom. The fact that her creativity was contained did not enter her mind.
Arnaud picked up on her psyche. “Wonderful.” Jezebel stretched out her hand to claim Arnaud’s affection away from his gift to another, but Arnaud pulled his hand away. Jezebel looked wounded, but her demeanor of contempt for Alison remained stable. “Begin.” Arnaud permitted verbally and Beatrice and Jacquelyn rose and claimed carving implements to distribute the meat.
Chapter 6. A Taste of Things to Come.
The Servants could be quiet gay at times. Never to the extent were they would mock their Masters, but they could laugh, tease and flirt with one another. Arnaud’s presence meant this was kept to a minimum, but after he had eaten he rose, Jezebel quickly rising with him, and politely took his leave. He paused only to place his hand on Alison’s shoulder and compliment her. The confrontational and threatened Jezebel strutted after him as he exited and the volume of voices rose moments after his departure. Alison feared being isolated by status but Beatrice and Jacquelyn started talking over the table in English, something they should not be doing.
“Do not worry about Jezebel. You are the new favorite, Master will sort her out.” Beatrice said.
The concept of favorites was new to Alison. Alison began to get the feel that the Society rules were more relaxed here. She briefly wondered if she should correct them, but had little experience in dealing with disobedience. A Maid down the table kept looking at her as if she wanted to say something so Alison addressed her. “Yes jeune fille.” Alison said.
Anything the Maid was going to ask was frightened out of her as the whole table turned to look at the Maid. She blushed into silence. The incident was awkward but gave Alison her footing. If this were the kitchen Alison would get the individual on her own and coax the issue out of them….. and it was that simple. If Alison was senior in the House she would run it like a kitchen, leaving only the segregation of language between the kitchen hands and the Servants.
The table slowly eroded as Harris left to patrol and the Maids who obviously wanting to enjoy leisure time remembered they were hampered by duties pulled out until only Edmond, Beatrice and Jacquelyn remained. Edmond was eying Jacquelyn and though naive in the execution of sex Alison knew the stare of hunger. She did not approve of the matching and had directed even Society away from Waiters and kitchen staff in her day. She decided to take charge. “Beatrice, Jacquelyn: Clear the table and perverse the still fresh meat for the next couple of days. Take what is left and create a dish with it. You will work with what is on hand and it will be sampled by only yourself. No pressure for perfection, just try something new. She spoke in French and that isolated Edmond. Perturbed, but getting the point, he rose and retired giving Jacquelyn one last look. Alison hoped he got the message. As Edmond left and the pair started their work Alison added. “I will take breakfast, you may both rest tomorrow.”
Beatrice and Jacquelyn nodded their brief reprieve from Servitude over.
Alison walked to the stairs that led to her room and started down the hall. As she came to Arnaud’s room she saw the doors open. Crying was coming from the room followed by a cry. Alison knew better to pock her head into Society business but chanced a look as she passed.
Jezebel’s hands were bound and strung up on the mast of Arnaud’s double bed. Her dress had been torn and lay crumpled at her feet. Arnaud lashed her with a whip and her cries came again. Alison found herself eavesdropping as Arnaud disciplined her. “You were rude to my new possession Jezebel.” Another lash.
Jezebel wept openly. Perhaps experience had taught her to debate would only make things worse, but pleading obviously worked for Jezebel began to do so enthusiastically. “I don’t want to be replaced. Please Arnaud I want to be your favorite.”
“So weak Jezebel.” Another lash came. The lines on her back were shallow but red and were an indication of her intense discomfort. “You were so rude to her Jezebel.”
“I wasn’t…. I didn’t mean… Who is she?”
“She is the delightful side benefit of something bigger Jezebel. She is not my expensive concubine from the Conservatory.” Now Arnaud was stroking her buttocks with his hand blending lust with sadism. “You will be nice to her?”
Jezebel didn’t say anything at first, but as her experience taught her the moment he drew back his whip she broke. “Yes. Yes. Yes.”
Arnaud relaxed and lent in to kiss Jezebels’ shoulder. “Good girl.” Before he reached up to untie her wrist Arnaud turned to Alison standing in the hall exposed by the open doors. He winked at her.
Alison blushed with apprehension and hastened to her room.
Introduction.
Alison walked the rows of vines at the Vineyard. The early morning sun on the dew meant mist flooded of the vines, almost creating the illusion of smoke rising. The rows did not run in straight lines but curved around the side of the hills. Every two dozen rows was a line of Lavender. It was perhaps Arnaud Brink who introduced the lavender into the vineyard. Whilst economically not viable the grapes took in the flavours of those grown around it. Certain dishes could bring out the flavours and Alison knew only too well honey from the hives (there were a lot of bees at work) would activate the lavender and she could create a meal that would sedate the guests with the house wine. Lavender was known to have relaxing properties and perhaps its essence was what he wanted to incorporate into his wine. Perhaps he produce a wine that was intended to sedate drinkers rather than bolster and enthuse them. Alison was looking for hives she assumed were kept on the grounds. From her position on the hill she could see a small farmer’s market and town down in the valley and desperately hoped it was on vineyard land. It was the place she expected the fresh vegetables came from. She wanted to go down and see firsthand what was on offer. Already her surrounds dictated her she would be cooking seasonally, but Arnaud had specified she was not to leave the vineyard. She would spend all morning looking for resources to cook with. The problem she faced, no longer free to roam, is that she could not select her main ingredient. She was entirely dependent on Arnaud to supply her. This could prove to have an adverse effect on presentation and meal planning.
Bobbing red hair swayed from side to side as Jacqueline ran down between a row of vines to catch her. Alison stopped, seeing one of her newly found assistants and started back up the hill to slightly ease the distance she had to traverse. She met the out of breath kitchen hand and smiled in greeting.
“Master wishes to speak to you before he departs for the city.” She said in French. The rest of the Household, though in France, spoke English. Her face was flushed as she tried to calmly express the message.
Alison turned from her exploration and walked back towards the Mansion at the vineyard.
Jacquelyn startled and scampered up back the hills, an even more daunting route with the incline, to convey the message that Alison was one her way.
Alison would have to leave the exploring to later in the day. Some flesh, preserved, still remained from the English schoolgirl and Alison would have ingredients for the next couple of days. The staff required protein and in truth Alison did not know the rules for their diet. Arnaud had thrown her in the deep end sending her straight off to cook and she as yet still didn’t have clean clothes.
As she reached the House she saw Harris patrolling the car Arnaud and she had arrived in. He nodded to Alison and she smiled back before climbing the single stair into the Mansion. The layout of the House she was familiar with led her to Arnaud in the lounge with Jezzabell dressed for an evening of cocktails and dining at eight in the morning. Contempt was still in her eyes, but Arnaud had whipped the edge out of her gaze. She was like a cat luxuriating in the company of her Master. Arnaud turned from the Swiss beauty and gestured at Alison to follow. Keeping step in dirty socks and day old clothes Arnaud walked her out to a balcony that surveyed the vineyard.
“You need clothes, new ones, and ingredients.” He was talking business, but had a familiar context as he spoke in French.
Alison just listened politely. She was not in the habit of requesting things she did not need to cook with. Her previous liberty meant she could get the rest herself.
“I will have samples sent today, you must not continue in dirty clothes. A chef’s whites; that is a priority.”
Alison nodded though she was looking at him and he was looking out at the grounds he owned. “When the girl has no more fresh meat to offer go to the market in the valley with Jacquelyn and Beatrice, they are known to the sellers and will offer you everything you need.” He paused and gave a cautious but detach look over at his shoulder at his concubine and her long perfect legs. “I tired of Jezzabell.” He spoke bluntly and with a coldness Alison had not yet seen. “She has run her course. Next Saturday I am having an important dinner at the vineyard. Thirteen guests minimum, have Jezzabell served as the main course. Harris and Edmond will back you up. Keep it from her, though I doubt she will flee. Request any ingredient you require.”
Alison did not say a word she fidgeted, slightly uncomfortable with having to interact with Jezzabell for five days before having her lain on her kitchen bench… no that wasn’t the problem. She had never cooked anyone with a personality gleamed beyond a glance. Though the two had not spoken if Jezzabel was available for the table then who else might be.
“This is an important event Alison. See that it goes well.” Arnaud turned and left Alison alone on the balcony. Arnaud smiled at Jezzabell as if he had just not signed her death warrant and the concubine came to him and lovingly embraced him. Arnaud’s affection showed no hint of betrayal and Jezzabell kissed him affectionately on the check. The discipline of last night forgotten in her Keisha like role.
“Take care Alison Bridges.” He said in English and left for the front door.
As soon as he was gone Jezzabell glanced over Alison and raised an eye. She had no hint of her immanent sentence as main course next weekend.
Chapter 7.
The English school girl’s chest rose and fell slightly. She was very week and Alison gave her, maybe, six hours before she finally succumbed to her injuries. Jacquelyn and Beatrice’s experiments had been isolated to the girl’s grilled legs and Alison was happy with the amputation of the legs. The left over leg meat provided bacon and sausage for breakfast. The girl had been in pain so long she was delirious and no longer had the strength to require restraints.
Alison wore a spare pair of Beatrice’s whites and her hems were folded on her wrists and ankles. She gently ran her finger over the girl’s belly. Jacquelyn was readying the tools. The pair had made do without Alison and there were only minor oversights in preparation. Beatrice hung over Alison shoulder. In French Alison began and Jacquelyn immediately came to see the visual component as Alison laid out the slaughter of the remnants of the girl. As became evident to the girls the angle of the cut could dictate choice meat being harvested incorrectly. The English school girl panicked as much as her low energy permitted as Alison fingers tracing lines over her body hinted at more tortures. Jacquelyn and Beatrice nodded in understanding. Alison began the first cut around the girl’s sex. Her eyes bulged, but only a whimper escaped her from exhaustion. Alison cut in degrees, but along identical paths so that the meats edge was shear. The girl’s blood was tainted from her wounds so Alison gave no mind to collecting it and she removed the delightful mound. Jacquelyn had a tray on hand to collect it. It would be frozen, but kept for an occasion when all of Arnaud guests could enjoy prime fillet without the need to slaughter a dozen or so women for one cut.
Alison allowed Beatrice to flay and cut her tenderloin and the girl expired in the process. Beatrice looked at Alison concerned that she had erred, but Alison shrugged and politely asserted, “Elle etait proche de la mort” (she was near death). Alison put a reassuring hand on Beatrice’s shoulder and the kitchen hand continued successfully claiming the tender meat. Beatrice past it down to Jacquelyn who, under Alison’s scrutiny, sliced it further along the natural separations of muscles. Again Alison was happy and praised. The pair new much, but had lacked a Master to give them praise and the liberty one bought to try new things. “How bland things must have been”, Alison thought to herself in French, because that was the language she thought in in culinary affairs.
As Beatrice moved onto remove the fat from the girl’s breasts for soup and stock Alison took her leave to explore further the Mansion House. There was a pool! Alison did not know how to swim, never a need permitted in her training to learn, but she marvelled at it. It was tucked away at the side of the Mansion. There was a balcony, from Arnaud’s room, leaning out towards it. As Alison smiled at the thought of stripping to her nickers and just walking through the water she felt eyes boring into the back of her head. She turned around to see Jezzabell in the doorway of the balcony, splendid in her beauty and perfect. Alison glanced at her next unwitting project and Jezzabell posed claiming aesthetic dominance. Knowing Jezzabell was doomed took the power off any intimidation Alison may have felt. Jezzabell was meat now, she just didn’t know it. Alison took a professional pose and observed Jezzabell. She did not know it, but she assess Jezzabell as a chef would venison.
When girls were cooked contortion and muscle breakdown warped their shape from their original toning. This was why Alison was such a fan of grilling portions of women, or very slow cooking. A Society dinner of at least thirteen meant all of Jezzabell would have to be utilized in one occasion if the servants (and Alison firmly believed those who created the meal should sample for education, if not pleasure) were to have a taste. Jezzabell grew bored with her peacocking not having the desired effect, but Alison was abuzz with an idea.
Across from the pool was a sauna. She walked, now unnoticed, over to it and opened the door. It was spacious and had a bench someone could be laid on flat. Alison smiled. She had never tried steaming a person before. The process was long and a medical drip would be needed to keep Jezzabell alive, but it could be down. Jezzabell could be served cold, with some type of tomatoes sauce, like Gazpacho, but thicker, Alison would need to invent it. Her mind raced at the possibilities. Now it was essential she went to the market and saw what was on hand. Her idea of cooking with honey would have to wait and probably wasn’t suitable to the event Arnaud had in mind. First she would converse with Jacquelyn and Beatrice and bring them up to speed, the talk to either Edmond, or Harris, about keeping tabs on Jezzabell and requisitioning what she needed. The Maids and other servants she would keep completely in the dark.
Inside Alison spoke in French to Jacquelyn and Beatrice, then repeated and glanced over details in English for Harris. Harris was nervous. Edmond was asleep having taken the night watch and Harris should have been patrolling. Arnaud kept something very important at his Mansion. Alison did not know that it was merely a precaution to keep the House secure from other Society members who may come and interfere with his isolation. Alison now found it foolish to assume that Jezzabell had been the thing he had been protecting. For her too be so very beautiful meant she must have cost a great deal at the conservatory. Arnaud’s dinner must mark a very special occasion.
Requisition Request:
1 Bottle of Chloroform
8x sterile surgical pins
Timed Medical Drip with Needle and Tube
10x 1 litre of Saline Solution bags for drip
One bottle of 10mg Nitro-glycerine tablets
2x Super Soft Bondage Rope (Red) 200ft
1 gram Spanish Saffron
10 grams Ground Capsicum Annum, sourced from South America (Paprika)
500ml Nunez De Prado Extra Virgin Olive Oil sourced from Sicily (bottled 2013)
Magnums of Pinot Noirs from the Barossa Valley, Adelaide, Australia (enough for dinner party)
1x Bikini
Note: Remainder of ingredients sourced locally.
Alison hoped the request for a bikini was not two bold, but she did so desire to enter the pool, but did not want to embarrass herself paddling around in front of Jezzabell. When the bikini would arrive Jezzabell would be close to her reassignment as dinner and perhaps Alison would chance it, or even use it to her advantage.
In a high-rise office in Paris Arnaud Brink read through the email requesting the things Alison couldn’t source for herself. He smiled as he read the last one. His anonymous call that gave the location of the abducted girls to the police gave him the power to master the cover up that saw Alison Bridges become his possession and the guests who had dined at the building become indebted to him for protection. The SWAT team had been neutralized on a training exercise when dummy explosives had been replaced for real ones. The female detective had been stabbed in an alleged mugging gone bad. Arnaud would keep the male detective alive so he could be activated if the dinner didn’t go as planned.
This weekend the most influential of the Society caught up in the scandal would be dining with him to once again experience what Alison had to offer. He would make his proposal to them then. There need for discretion guaranteed his success.
Chapter 8.
Alison received no reply to her requisition order, but the ingredients started to arrive, the bikini coming first. On the parcel was a post-it note with a smiley face drawn on it. Alison resisted the urge to slip into the pool with it, having an idea of when that time should come. Instead she waited till all the ingredients had arrived and on Friday morning sent Beatrice down to the market to pick up and check the local produce they had gone down to request. Alison would check the local ingredients again. Everything must be fresh and perfect. It was time to bait the hook.
It seemed Jezzabell’s routine showed she suspected nothing. She walked on her treadmill; lifted light weights; and kept herself immaculate should Arnaud come unexpected. She was ready to be perfect for him at all times; her only responsibility and role in life. Alison changed into her bikini for the first time. Arnaud was no stranger to the female form and the bikini fitted her body perfectly. Alison looked at herself in the mirror. She took leave from her plan to wonder if she should get another piercing in her naval; another stud and mark of status now that she could play in the pool and ran a household as well as a kitchen.
The Maids needed little guidance and Alison did not know the low profile they kept was the result of Arnaud sister having a tendency to visit when Arnaud was away and take one for her own designs. Alison had heard Renee Brink discussed amongst the Maids, but had never enquired to her character. The quicker they were at their duties meant they could spend more time in hiding. Jacquelyn and Beatrice seemed to be more active around the Mansion and their middle management gave Alison all the time in the world to dream up dishes and pass them on. She was on good terms with everyone save the soon to be removed Jezzabell who still seemed to think she was the most valuable object in the Mansion. Arnaud was not so shallow.
Alison left her room and as she walked past the Master bedroom where Jezzabell luxuriated she pressed on the door. It drifted open and she walked slowly so Jezzabell could see her walking to the pool in her bikini. Alison did not look back. She rounded the corner took a right and walked out below the balcony of the Master bedroom. Sure enough Jezzabell was there watching as Alison, boldly, displayed her beauty. It was not on the level of Jezzabell’s, but she was a woman who if born free would have been the trophy of a very powerful man. Ironically, slavery meant she was the exact same thing.
Jezzabell sneered at Alison apparently discovering pleasing physical appearance. She sneered and turned back to the room.
Mild panic took Alison. Quickly as Jezzabel turned she pulled off her bikini top and flung it at Jezzabell striking the railing of the balcony just beside her. At the look of pure contempt Alison sat by the pool and displayed herself.
Jezzabell turning would have alerted her to Harris sneaking up behind with the cloth and chloroform. Alison was insistent her prize specimen not be bruised by struggle. Alison watched as Harris approached from the rear the capture immanent. Jezzabell’s eyes seemed angry at Alison’s, almost, nudity. Any man would find her attractive. Perhaps Jezzabell had some concept that Alison might even seem more desirable being less out of reach.
Harris made his move. The cloth came over her mouth and the eyes turned to surprise. Alison did not waist anytime seeing the struggle. The most important thing was to get to the room to make sure the certain take left Jezzabell unmarked.
Alison gave no thought to her vulnerability as she climbed the stairs and burst into the room wearing only her bikini bottoms. Harris was laying an unmarked Jezzabell down on the bed. She was unconscious and would remain so for some time. Harris nodded to Alison and then let his eyes wander.
Alison tilted her head to the side as if to say, ‘Really!’ and then snap into chef mode. “Strip her and carry her to the sauna.”
Harris nodded and without ceremony started to rip Jezzabell’s dress.
“Caution.” Alison snapped. “No marks. None.”
Harris sighed and searched for some scissors to gently remove Jezzabell’s dress.
Alison took her leave and went to her room to change into her chefs whites. So far everything was going according to plan. Harris knowing the entirety of the plan was carry Jezzabell like a small child as Alison emerged from her room. She led the way and Harris followed carry the meat. Alison head straight back outside to the sauna and Beatrice was waiting. The steam had not yet been turned on. As Harris lay Jezzabell down on the bench Alison moved onto embolization. Beatrice handed her the sterile needles; long thin pins. Alison turned Jezzabell’s head as far as she could and slid the needles into Jezzabells spin between two vertebrae. The needles would cause swelling of the spinal cord and paralyse Jezzabell from the neck down. She would breathe as normal but could be unable to escape the soft (relatively speaking) heat that would cook her for an entire night and day. Once the needles were in place Alison tied Jezzabells ankles to the paled bench and her wrists behind her back. In the unfortunate event she had some mobility she would be unable to escape the sauna between visits. The heat would be so low that a person, either Alison or one of her two helpers, could come in and check on Jezzabell every hour. The final step was to set up the saline drip so as to prevent Jezzabells from dying of dehydration. The salt from her sweet would act as one of the three garnishes. To the dinner guest Jezzabell would appear raw, the surprise coming when they cut into her to serve themselves and found tender, rich meat.
It was all in place. Harris left and Alison gave final instructions to Beatrice who would take the first shift. Midway through the day Jacquelyn would come and relieve her and so on swapping every six hours. Alison was to be notified on any deviation from the expected cooking procedure. The remaining two of Jezzabell’s assassins left the sauna and steam gentle flowed in. If the paralyse worked the binds would be removed and Jezzabell would be served in a picturesque state.
Interlude
Arnaud was so focused on the evening he did not talk to Alison other than to see things were on track. Alison had just removed Jezzabell from the sauna after slowly cooking her over eighteen hours. A Maids was at work applying makeup to Jezzabells face so that she looked serine. The pills of nitro-glycerine had been used to keep her heart beating and they had used eight of the saline bags keeping her alive. Arnaud’s brief check was how Alison liked it. She left to the hospitality to others and liked to focus on her art. The quests were beginning to arrive and Alison asked Jacquelyn to take the sauce out of the fridge. Vegetable had not been cooked. This meals was about Jezzabell’s beauty from Alison perspective. She knew she had never cooked a woman quiet so beautiful and it was as much about the presentations as it was about the meal being a unique experience.
Alison looked down at Jezzabell as she lay on the polished silver tray. The heat had undoubtedly cause brain damage, but she was aware of what was coming. Alison pulled the needles out of the back of Jezzabell’s neck. It didn’t matter if the swelling subsided she was cooked through.
Alison took the olive oil she had requested as the Maids marched in to collect the deep plates with the sauce, decorated with garnishes out to the quests. The evening was beginning with the meal. They were arriving promptly, the socializing would take place after dinner. Alison took the saffron and flicked it over Jezzabell’s soft skin. She repeated more liberally with the paprika giving Jezzabell the final glittered effect she had envisaged. It was perfect. Once all the plates had been delivered four Maids came back in to collect Jezzabell and carry her out. As the door closed behind them Alison, Jacquelyn, and Beatrice all leaned their ears to the door to hear the reaction of the guests. The cries of delight and complements to Arnaud came in a flurry and Alison in the centre of the trio placed her hands on her two helper’s shoulders. “Travail bien fait” (Job well done).
The statuesque Swiss woman on the platter was carved like butter. The Maids stepped in and out of between quests keeping their glasses full at all times as a dish exquisite in appearance was slowly consumed amongst the chatter of the dinner guests.. No one was driving. No one there had a need to drive, their chauffers waiting for them outside in luxury vehicles. Arnaud sat at the head of the table observing and replying to those whom addressed him. He was modest when the topic of sacrificing Jezzabell was raised by those who had met her. Arnaud made her out to be a trifle thing, though she had been his concubine for five years.
“But who will entertain you now?” A potbellied man asked whilst gliding a piece of Jezzabell’s bicep through the chilled sauce.
Arnaud smiled in reply. He briefly thought of Alison and her classic American beauty. She was not as divine, but her skills made her more tempting. He was distracted by another question on House Keeping matters.
“Your Mansion is slight of staff”, it was a passive aggressive jib, “but it seems to run itself. You never thought to get a House Keeper?”
“The Maid’s know I will gift them to Renee if they stray and House Keeper gossip amongst their kind. I wish to not have a servant guide my House in any direction not dictated by me.” Arnaud replied and to his left a Maid pouring wine slipped slightly staining the white table cloth at the casual mention of the one they all feared. It went unnoticed. The topic of Renee should have been a sensitive one, but Arnaud had always played it down by killing the story. ‘Yes Renee breaks the rules. Yes she is my sister.’ He admitted it as if she was entitled to her extremes.
“Did you get all the staff from Paris?” another guest asked. All the people present had come under threat from the police’s discovery.
“Just the Head Chef. The rest were retired.”
“And our cover-up is secure?” An as of yet silent party spoke.
“There is no danger gentlemen so long as I am alive.” Arnaud smiled. He’d just secured his safety with the aid of every person in the dining room without threat, nor apparent due-arrest.
A slender woman in contrast to how much of Jezzabell’s thighs she had eaten took her turn. “Why so lavish? Did you just wish to polish the season off, or do you require something from us?”
Arnaud eyed the woman suspiciously. Most people were born into the Society. This woman was new blood and had sought them out. A dangerous game, but she had been accepted and had no expectations of endulgent treatment. She took what she was offered. It was funny that the one person who would not appreciate the history of what Arnaud was about to say had come closest to his motives.
“Dalton Monroe is dying.” Arnaud sipped his wine and took a break from eating. What had been Jezzabell’s left shoulder sat on his plate waiting for him to resume eating.
The table was silent.
“Hugo is poised to take his place, but I say no. We have entertained the usurpers claim to long.”
All the guests were now silent and looked at Arnaud. “Are you speaking of rebellion?” The plumb man spoke up. This dinner party could very well be considered a meeting of conspiracy. Secret Societies did not stay secret if internal fighting took place.
“All I ask is that when Dalton Monroe is gone you permit me to display to you that he is not capable to train the Servants at the Compound.” Arnaud waved his hand back gesturing to the portrait of his ancestor. “No violence. No death. No need to keep this a secret; tell who you like.”
“This is a dangerous game Arnaud.” It was the new blood, slender woman who cautioned. If she could get into the Society she obviously had a fairer idea of how it worked than most.
“There is no danger in making the suggestion. When it happens, without killing, back I and I will garuntee prosperity.”
The silence continued to someone, clearly uncomfortable tried to change the subject. Arnaud seized the distraction and carried the conversation on, active for the first time in the dinner’s conversation. He had made his statement and news would circulate around the Society and back to Saudi Arabia. He could not be removed least all those who would be affected by his cover become exposed. If the Society in France was exposed it would ripple through Europe and then onto America and Asia. Arnaud had his sources, but he could not predict the response. It was a game of chess he was playing.
Epilogue.
The guests were nervous with news as they departed. Had Arnaud not held their security in his hands it would have been a matter not worthy of concern. Arnaud was the figure preventing an investigation into things that would destroy them. If any tried to secure their own cover up Arnaud could use his resources to prevent them. France was his foundation. He would claim Europe and then America, leaving Asia to fall in tow least they segregate and loose Saudi Arabia.
As the final guest left Arnaud walked into the kitchen. Alison was busy at work cleaning with Jacquelyn and Beatrice. “You shouldn’t do such menial things Alison.” Arnaud implored.
“They have been busy with preparations for two days.” Alison offered in explanation. The constant attention Jezzabell required whilst cooking had fatigue her to helpers. Pushing them further was no way to ingratiate them too her, she knew this from her own experience.
“It is your kitchen.” Arnaud had hoped to claim her for his bedroom now that Jezzabell was gone, but despite being a villain, who unbeknownst to her had claimed her liberty, he did not wish to interfere with the working of the kitchen. He would be a
|
|
|