Copper Horse , livre ebook

Andrews UK - Vina Green

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19 pages

English

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Two spectacular short stories from Vina Green. One BDSM-centric, another sapphic. Whilst this may seem like a strange mix of genres, both stories are tied together with both the common theme of employer/employee romance and the bittersweet nonpareil of Vina's writing.The Copper Horse:When a young student accepts a summer job, cleaning for a sophisticated and reclusive older man, she could never have anticipated the path down which her body and mind will take her as he tests her submission to its limits. He loves the smell of leather, and she loves to give him what he wants. Pain and pleasure collide in this subtle story about lust, longing and power play. The Orchard:A young woman learns to unlock her own pleasure and fulfil the desires of another when she enjoys her first lesbian encounter - with her employer. Their forbidden romance reaches an unexpected climax in this short coming of age story set within the sweet confines of an apple orchard.

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Erotic literature

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Publié par	Andrews UK
Date de parution	14 mai 2012
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781781662243
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0100€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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Title Page
THE COPPER HORSE

By
Vina Green

Publisher Information
The Copper Horse
Published in 2012 by Andrews UK Limited
www.andrewsuk.com
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Copyright © Vina Green 2012
The right of Vina Green to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.
For the one who started it all, and for Scarlett French and London Faerie at www.sacredpleasures.co.uk who helped me get the words out, and find a place to put them.
Special thanks to Matt Christie Photography for the cover image: www.mattchristie.com

The Copper Horse
The interview was short. Aside from showing me around the estate and explaining the duties I would be required to fulfill, he asked me only one question.
“What are you most afraid of?”
“The dark,” I replied.
I got the job, and he told me that if I was ever afraid, I should just ask him to turn on the light. And, I was to call him ‘Sir’. Had any other employer said the same thing, I might have found it odd, or inappropriate. But there was something about him, a weight in his voice, which held me like a magnet and made my heart jump, at the same time.
He liked the smell of leather. That was how it began, really.
I was employed as his cleaner and personal assistant. He’d been born blind, though you wouldn’t know it. Despite his visual impairment, he was an artist. He worked with large, heavy sheets of thick white paper, and charcoal. His work was rough, full of flowing lines which didn’t meet neatly, but combined to make a whole. Nonetheless, the portraits that I saw bore an incredible resemblance to the customers who left with them, and he had a steady stream of visitors to the house, each wanting to leave with their own small miracle, a picture of themselves reflected through the eyes of a blind man. One woman, who returned several times, told me that she wanted to know what a man, who couldn’t see, saw in her.
I wondered the same thing.
It was only ever meant to be a summer job, but when term time came around again, I found that I didn’t want to leave. I was paid well, and I liked the work. He had a big, old, Victorian house, the sort that never really looks clean no matter how often you tidy it. There was a small greenhouse, and a stable, no longer in use. He had converted almost the entire upstairs floor into a studio, where he spent most of his time. There were several large windows, so that light tumbled into the room all day, casting long shadows over his strange assortment of furniture during the afternoon. He had several chaise longues, a set of narrow, wooden, uncushioned chairs with tall backs, and a strange frame in the shape of a small horse, made from copper, which I supposed was some type of art. He had laid an old saddle along the top of it, complete with stirrups, because he liked the smell of leather, he said, and the feeling of the stitching. There were no curtains, but we did not have any neighbours, and until I arrived he had always worked in the dark. Now he left the lights on. The power bill, he said, was neither here nor there, and the environment was someone else’s battle to fight.
He was tactile, and meticulous. He’d lived in the house for his entire life, close to 60 years, and he knew precisely where everything was kept. I was to put every item that I touched back exactly where it came from so that he could find it again. He had a cane, black, with a white fox carved in quartz attached to the top, but he rarely used it, preferring instead to feel his way both through habit and by running his fingers gently along the walls to find his way from one room to the next. He always dressed well, in expensive clothes and fabrics that felt pleasant to touch. Downstairs, the drapes were velvet, the carpet was bamboo fibre. He had cobbles in the kitchen, rather than tiles, which felt cool and pleasantly rough underfoot. Despite the impracticality, all of the work surfaces were made of thick, untreated timber, so that if you ran your hand along them you could feel the grain.
It was absolute murder to keep clean. None of the surfaces were easy-wipe, all of them were creviced, and required constant scrub and polish. I enjoyed the ache in my arms, and I found I could easily lose myself in the steady rhythm of the work. Increasingly I wanted to do a good job for him, although he couldn’t see the degree to which I made everything gleam. He did, once, in feeling his way downstairs, notice that I had managed to beat all of the dust out of the drapes. “Good girl,” he said. That made me want to please him more.
I spent a good part of each day on my knees, scrubbing.
Eventually, I began to find excuses to clean nearer to him, to dust the rooms that he was working in, hoover under his feet. He once commented on my perfume, he said that I smelled like cinnamon. I began to wear perfume every day. I leaned towards him as often as I could, handing him his mail rather than leaving it on the table, so that he might smell me. My heart quickened when I was near him, and I was sure he could hear it racing. I began to cook for him. I made food that felt good in my mouth, plates of oysters and smoked salmon. I made food with aroma, Thai soups with coconut and lemongrass, and soda bread that felt good to tear apart.
I started to wear lipstick, and nicer clothes, and gradually, fewer and fewer of them. First, a simple black dress, the sort I might wear on a date if I ever had one, and a long, heavy silver pendant on a chain that swung when I walked. Then, a satin chemise, black, short, without any underwear. I leaned in front of him as if to reach for something across the desk where he was sitting, so, had he been able to see, he would have seen directly down my front, my nipples erect, and breasts hanging down.