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Charlotte I
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
CHARLOTTE I
By Parker & ?????
WARNING: This story contains bondage, non-consensual sex,
d/s, humiliation and other similar elements. If you do not
enjoy reading this sort of fantasy, STOP NOW (before it is
too late). OK? You have been warned.
Copyright 1993 by me (Parker) and ???. Feel free to
distribute (unaltered), but be discrete.
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"Pardon me Madame, but we're in Port".
Francesca D'Abrette opened her eyes to see the Captain's
bearded face on the large colour monitor that hung from the
ceiling of her opulent cabin.
"Thanks, Bole." She stretched, catlike, working the sleep
from her body. "Give me an hour or so to get ready, and we'll go
ashore. Oh... and tell the crew that tonight's a party night."
The corner of the Captain's mouth twitched in what might
have been a smile. "At once, Madame." He nodded and the screen
went dark.
Yawning, the young millionairess slid off the soft bunk and
planted her feet in the thick carpet. The cabin was indeed
opulent, but the luxury went unnoticed; in her almost thirty
years of existence, she had come to expect nothing less from her
surroundings. Indeed, she would have tolerated nothing less. That
was why, upon inheriting the "Monaco Nymph" cruiser when her
brother died (in somewhat mysterious circumstances), Francesca
had personally ensured that it was completely refurbished.
A large, mirrored wardrobe filled the length of one wall in
her large cabin/bedroom, and Francesca took a moment to admire
her reflection before opening it to select some suitable
clothing. She was not a beautiful woman, but she was a striking
one. Her face, under her short, dark hair, was a bit thin and
harsh, and her body, while lithe and muscular, was not really
curvaceous enough to be called attractive; indeed, she was almost
completely lacking in breasts. Francesca could easily have
rectified that with surgery, but on the whole she was not really
all that interested in attracting the kind of men who were turned
on by large breasts. Really, she was not all that interested in
attracting men in any case. Her pleasures lay elsewhere. And, if
she did decide that she wanted a man (as she did on rare
occasions), she had learned that money was far more effective an
aphrodisiac than any mere physical feature.
And money was one thing she had in abundance.
Smiling back at her reflection, she slid open the door to
the wardrobe. At one end hung a variety of night dresses, some
long and expensive, others short and slutty. Next to these were
her 'bedroom clothes'; a range of fancy dress costumes that might
be worn by herself or by a 'friend' in any fantasy she might
choose to enact. The remaining half of the closet contained day
and evening wear from the world's greatest designers. She pulled
out a short white Channel dress-suit, a present from an old
girlfriend. She loved it's perfect fit and simplicity, and
decided it would be ideal. In a place like St. Maxine, simplicity
often attracted far more attention than flash and glitter.
And Francesca D'Abrette loved to be noticed.
After a quick shower, Francesca slipped into a silk
camisole, panties and shear white stockings, put on her dress,
and applied some make-up. Preparations complete, she called the
Captain on the boat's intercom.
"Are you ready to leave?" she asked. Upon hearing an
affirmative response, she strolled to the upper deck. Topside,
she paused briefly to survey the view. The Port of St. Maxine
consisted of a small bay nestled snugly in between a rise of land
to the east and an artificial breakwater to the west. The town
itself - long one of the lesser-known "getaways" for the rich and
famous - was spread out in a picturesque sweep of colour and
light, beginning on the north beach with the famous "Promenade
des Anglais" and sprawling on upwards through numerous
magnificent summer homes and on up into the gently rolling hills
of southern France.
The Mate - one of the six men crewing the large cabin-
cruiser - nodded respectfully as he assisted her in her descent
down the short ladder to the launch bobbing in the choppy
Mediterranean water. She was popular with the crew. One of the
reasons for this was her habit of throwing small "parties" for
them at many of the various ports of call. This particular stop
was one of their favourites; five of the six men (short straw
stayed on watch - she would be sending out some "entertainment"
later on) would be joining her and the Captain onshore later,
once the relevant arrangements were made. As usual, Fransesca
would not be participating, but she did like to watch.
It promised to be a memorable evening.
The Captain, Nedrick Bole of South Africa, had booked a
table in one of the town's more celebrated restaurants - a
Michelin "3 Star" on the busiest section of the popular Promenade
des Anglais. The restaurant had, of course, been booked up when
he had called - one usually booked weeks in advance for this
particular establishment - but the D'Arbrette name opened a lot
of doors. As they entered the restaurant, the Maitre d' Hotel
came straight over to her, atypically ignoring at least one
gesture of request from another guest.
"Miss D'Abrette!" he greeted her in flawless english. "It is
so good to see you here again!" He ushered the two of them to a
corner table.
Over dinner, she and Captain Bole discussed plans for the
crew party later that evening. For these occasions, Fransesca
usually provided luxurious quarters, unlimited alcohol and a
number of prostitutes for the men to enjoy. She herself rarely
participated, usually just watching. Tonight, however, she felt
like doing something more. Something special.
Just what, however, she wasn't certain.
After the waiter had unobtrusively cleared away the remains
of their repast, Fransesca and the Captain made their way to a
public phone to begin making arrangements for the coming evening.
As was almost always the case in Europe, the booth was plastered
with an assortment of stickers pasted onto the glass
surroundings. Each had been printed in both english and french,
and advertised the services of various 'escorts' based in the
town.
CALL YOUNG BLONDE NIKKI
ON 755632
FRENCH IS MY SPECIALTY
MISTRESS HELGA INVITES YOU TO HER DUNGEON
PHONE 133598 - NOW!
SAMANTHA WILL BE YOUR 24-HOUR SLUT
TEL.613344
SCHOOL-GIRL SHERRI NEEDS YOUR PUNISHMENT
-166455-
48DD DEBBIE NEEDS YOUR BODY ON 314569
MASTERCHARGE AND AMEX
"Captain... have a look at these!"
Bole, who had been scanning the passing crowds for
attractive women while Francesca had examined the cards, peered
into the small booth. She held up a couple of the cards for
examination. "Which of these do you want? I think I might give
'School-girl Sherri' a ring!"
"Ha!" Bole laughed. He like this part of the job. "I was
thinking of her myself! The men always like that sort of thing.
How about 'Debbie'?"
"Why Captain," Francesca teased, "a breast man. I never
knew."
Bole grinned, shrugging his shoulders. "I'm only thinking
about the welfare of my crew," he declared stoutly.
Fransesca laughed. After a final glance at the other
advertisements, she slipped the two cards they had chosen into
her purse and left the phone booth. Something was bothering her,
though. She still felt like doing something different tonight,
but she didn't know what it was.
Ah well... something would turn up.
A few moments later, they entered the Hotel Adelphi, walking
into its large, marble reception area. It was there they
encountered an unexpected problem in the form of a stubborn desk
clerk.
"I'm sorry Mademoiselle, but we are fully booked tonight."
The speaker - the creator of the problem - was a young blonde
girl standing behind the reception desk. Unused to being refused
anything (it was an experience as unpleasant as it was
unfamiliar), Fransesca stared at her. She saw a girl in her early
twenties: a tall, willowy blonde, with soft blue eyes and long
hair that fell in gentle waves down her shoulders.
A girl who was in her way.
The desk clerk - Charlotte - looked back, trying to maintain
a firm look on her pretty face. She saw only a rich woman; a
spoiled, rich woman who was all too used to getting her own way
in everything. A woman who had not been forced to scrimp and save
and work her fingers to the bone in order to get through two
years of business school; a woman who had not been required to
trudge endlessly from interview to interview, finally accepting a
position far below that for which she was qualified. A woman who
had no right to speak to her in that tone of voice.
A woman she resolved herself to stand up to.
As for Fransesca, she suddenly realized just what it was she
wanted to do that night. The reason - the source of her strange
restlessness - suddenly became apparent. A nasty smile flickered
across her face. If Charlotte had been a little older - a little
more experienced, a little more observant - she might have sensed
the danger in the woman's smile. But she was none of these
things.
"Call me the manager" Francesca ordered, smile gone, glaring
at the poor blonde.
Charlotte sniffed, but did as she was told. Henri would sort
this spoiled woman out. Soon a short frenchman - Henri Delacourt,
the manager of the hotel - appeared from a side door. Charlotte
turned to explain matters to him, but was cut off before she
could speak.
"Francesca, mon ami!" Henri rushed forward, taking the
proffered hand and bestowing an elegant kiss. "But it has been
too long! How are you? How is your brother?" After accepting his
obeisance, Francesca cooly explained how her brother had
regrettably just passed away, and that she, as his only heir, now
managed the D'Abrette empire.
"You have both my sympathies, and my congratulations..." he
said tactfully. Knowing what he did of the D'Abrettes, he had a
pretty good idea that her brother's death had not been an
accident. Still, it was not his place to question either the
motives or actions of the rich. He was, despite his senior
position in the hotel, a servant; and he knew it.
He was also well aware that the D'Abrette empire included a
large Parisian holding company, which in turn owned a controlling
interest in the Adelphi hotels.
"And how might I be of service, Madame?"
"The 'Nymph' is moored in the harbour," Fransesca told him,
"But we were hoping to enjoy a night on dry land. However, the
young lady here informs me that you have no rooms available."
"Mon dieu!" The manager turned and slapped his young desk
clerk across her slender wrist. "Charlotte! What nonsense. Do you
not know who this is? You will ensure that the penthouse is
immediately readied for her, and that her visit is made as
enjoyable as we are able!"
Charlotte, amazed at this turn of events, blushed furiously,
but quickly nodded her head in obedience. "Oui Monsieur, je
comprend, je comprend!"
Francesca smiled as the young girl stammered out an
embarrassed apology. "She's very pretty Henri. Perhaps she could
be our chambermaid for this evening?" Henri frowned; that was
highly irregular. "Oh," she continued, "And while you are here,
might I invite you and your wife to dine with us on the Nymph
next week? We will be returning to St. Maxine on the first of the
month."
He was perceptive enough to perceive the implied promise; he
did not wish to spend the entirety of his career managing this
one hotel. "Mademoiselle," Henri said, beaming. "You are too
kind! Of course we will be happy to join you. Charlotte will get
changed immediately, and ensure that your room is prepared!"
The manager was well aware of the eccentricities of the
rich, and neither knew, nor wished to know, why the young heiress
might demand a chambermaid in her bedroom. He had learnt the
importance of discretion, but realised that his blonde employee
might not recognize such values. As Francesca and the Captain
left to take a drink in the hotel bar, he pulled the girl to one
side.
"Charlotte," he hissed, "Miss D'Abrette is one of our most
valuable customers. I will be asking her in the morning about
your performance and will expect an favourable report! In that
way, you may make amends for your unforgivable rudeness to her."
"But Monsieur..." Charlotte felt like she was going to cry.
"It was not my fault. We were booked. And the way she looked at
me... it was if she was undressing me with her eyes!"
Henri looked around to lobby; no one was nearby. He turned
back to Charlotte. "Indeed," he whispered, "she may well wish to
do such things or worse, so you should accept that now! If you
are good to her, and she speaks well of you, I can assure you
that your future within this hotel will be significantly
improved. I might add that she will likely reward you very well
herself."
That was the carrot; time for the stick. "If, however, you
refuse to do this, I promise that you will never work in this
business again!" He stared at her. "This is a large chain; you
are aware that I have the means to do as I say."
Charlotte wilted under his intense stare. She was one of the
many young hopefuls who had arrived at one of the resort villages
in the south of France from a poor farming family, searching for
riches. Despite her attendance at business school, good jobs -
indeed, any kind of jobs - were scarce. And anything, she
reasoned, was better than the life of street prostitution that
had befallen so many of her contemporaries. One thing that was
always in demand in a place such as St. Maxine was female beauty.
Charlotte shuddered.
"Yes sir," she said quietly, "I will do as you say."
"That is good. Go to the chief housekeeper and ask for a
chambermaid's outfit. She will dress and prepare you."
He put a fatherly hand on her shoulder. "You may be shocked
at the activities that take place this evening but do not forget
my promise!" Nodding, the young girl left the desk, to go and
ready herself for the night that lay ahead. After she left, the
manager picked up the desk phone and punched a button.
"Madame..." He spoke into the receiver. "This is Henri.
Charlotte will be coming by in a moment for a chambermaid's
uniform. I want you to give her one of the costume outfits...
Yes, the one we used for the longshoreman's party last year...
don't worry about that; tell her to put it on when she gets to
the penthouse..."
In the bar, Fransesca and the Captain sipped their drinks
and made use of the bar's cellular phone to call the women
advertised on the cards. It was a matter of only a few moments to
contact them and set up the evening's activities; any hesitation
the prostitutes might have felt was quickly dispelled when
Fransesca mentioned the location of their assignment; the Adelphi
was one of the most expensive hotels in a town full of expensive
hotels, and anyone who could afford a night in the penthouse
could surely afford to pay top rates.
Business finished, Fransesca relaxed in her seat while the
Captain informed the crew of the plans for the evening and
arranged for some company for the unlucky crew-member consigned
to watch duty. Word came, in the form of Henri himself, that
their room was ready, along with all the "special arrangements".
Fransesca and the Captain quickly they finished their drinks, and
took the elevator to the eighteenth floor penthouse.
His employer didn't react, but Bole could not help but gasp
as they entered the penthouse. The main bedroom was huge,
featuring two all-glass walls that afforded a spectacular view of
the sea-front all the way down to the eastern hills. The white
walls contained numerous specially-commissioned paintings by some
of France's most acclaimed modern artists. It was a suite, of
course, and polished wood doors lead to a library, a second
bedroom, and a large, brass and marble bathroom. The second
bedroom door was partly open, and they heard a rustling coming
from behind it. Francesca walked up to the door and knocked.
"One moment, Madame." It was Charlotte. "I am getting
changed."
Francesca turned to the Captain and giggled. "I think she's
shy!" she smirked. "We'll soon cure her of that. Still, we'll
play along with her to start with!" Fransesca felt a warm glow of
anticipation. She had been right; this was indeed what she had
needed for tonight. Her crew would have their party, and she
would have her's.
The Captain walked over to a beautiful teak drinks cabinet.
After surveying the extensive collection of premium brands, he
poured himself a glass of Scotch and mixed a Martini for
Francesca. After he passing it over to her, he took an
appreciative sip of his drink.
"Not ba..." he began to comment, but fell silent when the
door to the second bedroom opened and Charlotte walked out, her
cheeks flushed red with embarrassed self-consciousness.
She was quite a sight.
Her long, wavy blonde hair had been tied up in a high pony-
tail with a white lace ribbon drawn into a large bow. Thick, pale
pink lipstick and red blusher - applied by the housekeeper, in
accordance with Henri's instructions - gave her a beautifully
tarty look, that perfectly matched the effect created by the
skimpy maid's costume. The outfit itself was a thing of beauty.
It displayed her svelte figure perfectly, the tight, black silk
squeezing her breasts upwards, the twin points of her nipples
moulded and clearly visible beneath the thin material. The
plunging neckline and puffed shoulders were trimmed with white
frills, as was the thigh-length skirt's hem. White petticoats
flared under the tiny skirt, hanging clear from tight panties and
stockings. Gossamer thin, white net gloves went from her fingers
to upper arm; black stiletto high-heeled shoes clasped her feet,
and, as a final touch, a bib-like apron was tied around her torso
with a large bow, matching the one in her hair.
Charlotte fought back the tears as she entered the main
bedroom, tottering slightly on the high-heels. She had belatedly
come to the realization that the outfit she had been given was
not the normal hotel chambermaid uniform. By then, however, it
had been too late to protest. She had known, when Henri had
pulled her aside in the lobby, that more would be expected of her
than simple maid's duties, and she had accepted this as the price
she would have to pay to keep her job. The costume though... she
felt like such a slut in it!
'One night,' she told herself, gathering her courage as that
man and his hateful employer stared at her, him in open
admiration and the woman in... well, she didn't know what.
It scared her, though.
"How do you feel darling?" Francesca spoke at last, gliding
forward to inspect her new maid.
"Umm, I feel embarrassed Madame" replied the poor girl,
acutely aware of the looks her breasts and thighs were receiving,
both from Fransesca and the Captain.
"Don't worry," Fransesca assured her, fussing over the bow
in Charlotte's ponytail. "You look splendid." She stepped back,
taking in the full effect of Charlotte's maid costume. "Quite
delicious. And in about half an hour we'll have you looking just
as I want! Just stand there for a moment."
Francesca went to the phone, and dialled the direct number
given to her by the manager. "Hello, Henri? Yes, this is
Francesca. Yes, she is perfect... just one more thing to complete
the ensemble. I need some... virile young men who can be trusted.
Just for about twenty minutes." Charlotte's face adopted a look
of fear, but she kept her position; there was no backing out now.
Not if she wanted to keep her job.
Fransesca noted her expression and smirked over at her as
she listened on the phone. "That would be perfect. Oh yes... by
all means. Please do. The more the merrier."
She hung up the phone and walked slowly over to where
Charlotte stood in her maid's outfit. Slowly, she ran one of her
long, painted fingernails down the frightened girl's cheek.
"Don't worry my dear," she purred. "We're just completing your
'look' for tonight's party."
"Madame." Charlotte swallowed, gathering her courage. She
couldn't just let this happen without saying something. "I am
not... not a prostitute."
Fransesca smiled at this. "Well," she said, glancing over at
the Captain who was trying, vainly, to suppress a chuckle, "I'm
glad to hear it. I'd hate to think that I was going to have to
pay extra for your services. You do come with the room, don't
you?" The Captain laughed out loud.
Charlotte started to speak, but was interrupted by a knock
at the door. The Captain strode over and pulled it open. The
manager stood there, with five men who appeared to be from the
hotel's kitchens.
"They're Portuguese," he announced, correctly interpreting
Fransesca's raised eyebrow, "and don't speak any English or
French. They can all be trusted." He led the five men into the
room.
"Excellent," commented Francesca, motioning them over to
the where the Charlotte stood, now trembling. The cooks laughed
and pointed at their young co-worker who stood before them in her
new outfit. They knew who she was, just as she recognized them.
Charlotte, conscious of her position in the hotel as only one who
was used to worse could be, had made a point of ignoring those
whom she considered to be of a 'lower position' than herself. In
her few months as an employee, she had managed to alienate most
of the kitchen staff as well as many others with her haughtiness.
Hence, seeing her reduced to a mere chambermaid - a sexily
dressed chambermaid at that - was a pleasant surprise to these
men. One of them, bolder than the others, reached for the tail of
the large apron bow that hung from the small of her back, and
pulled it free as he passed. The apron dropped to the floor.
Anxious to retain what clothing she had, the humiliated girl
crouched down to pick it up.
"Charlotte!" Fransesca ordered angrily."Stand up! As long as
you are my maid, you will NEVER bend your legs to pick something
up. They must remain straight, and slightly parted, with your
back arched inwards. Do you understand?"
Flushing red with humiliation, Charlotte glanced over at the
manager. He just stared back, however, expressionless. No help
there. Trembling, Charlotte looked back at Fransesca and nodded.
"Good. Now try again. And do it slowly! We all want to
watch."
Charlotte did as she was told, feeling the tiny skirt slide
up over her thighs as she bent at the waist, legs straight and
slightly parted. The cooks, as a group, moved around to get a
view of her from behind, laughing and jeering as her tiny panties
were exposed. They stretched against her shapely buttocks,
clearly outlining the shape of her vulva. The cook who had pulled
free the apron ventured forward to slap her hard across her
exposed ass. Charlotte gasped and tried to straighten up, but
Francesca, who had moved up next to her, gripped the girl's neck,
keeping her head low.
It was time to begin in earnest.
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