The House of Lesslie Ch. 01

I.

The mansion hadn't changed, not all that much, from how I remembered it.

If at all, it had aged gracefully, as only English mansions can ¬ a massive Edwardian building that had served Lords and Ladies, had housed masters and servants for centuries. Around it, at a respectful distance, were smaller buildings that rose up from the moist English ground and lining the road to my right and left.

There had been a village here, once, so my mother had told me, but as my family's wealth and influence had grown, so had the mansion, until the grounds owned by the Leslies had simply swallowed up everything around them.

It was private property, now, all of it, starting at the iron gate we had passed almost three miles further down the road, walled in and separated from the world outside, just as my family had intended it to be.

I watched as it passed me by. My past. And my future. Sitting in the back of the Rolls Royce that had picked me up at Heathrow, finally allowed to smoke after over having been caged in the first class of a flight from Hong Kong, forced to find topics of conversation with those who had money, but no taste, influence but no class.

My family's money was old, and just like the mansion it built, it had aged gracefully, knowing its power and dominance. It had bought kings and queens, had fucked prime inisters and enslaved parliaments, had changed histories and people.

And was now mine, and mine alone.

That had changed.

The thick smoke from a small cigar rolled over my tongue as I sucked it in, let it stay there to savour its taste before I forced it down into myself, feeling it expand into my lung and lifting my breasts. It felt good. It felt right. To come home. To see that it had been waiting for me. To see that it was the way I remembered it.

The driver had changed. He was new. He was young. He was watching me, glances that were reflected in the Rolls's rearview mirror, watching me every now and then as I made the back of the car my own, dressed in a white fur coat that enclosed my body.

He didn't talk. Didn't try to make conversation. He was trained well, only responding when asked, the way any good servant should behave. But watching, yes, always watching.

I had gotten used to it, over the past years.

To people watching me, I mean. That had also changed. As had my body. Feeling it now, it was a comfortable thing, especially when I dressed it up, as I always did. It had taken me ten years, for change doesn't come easy, nor should it.

A transformation like mine had taken experience, a lot of it, gathered in places far away from home. And perfection comes at a price, at least mine did. The breasts straining inside the slick, black latex catsuit that was encapsulating me and showed them off? 16,000 dollars. The nose that expelled thin streams of smoke escaping my body and filling the Rolls with its sweet, pungent smell? 4,000 dollars. The lips, now a perfect red shape that wrapped around the small, black cigar like it was a thin, tasty cock, clamping down on it and not letting it go, until the ember tip burned brightly between the rubber gloved hand that held it? 3,500 dollars.

The knowledge that all of this was making my driver's cock hard inside the uniform's pants?

Priceless, my darlings.

Just priceless.

"Have you been in my mother's services long?" I asked him.

"Ma'am?"

"I don't remember you, darling, from the old days."

"No, Ma'am," he said. What a sweet boy he was. Still so nervous, and delightfully respectful. I would like this one, I could tell. "I have been hired by the mansion's major domus just recently."

"James?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

I smiled.

"I am sure that was quite an experience," I said.

The driver flushed. Shame, embarrassment and lust, in just the right mixture, all of his emotions playing off each other. Yes. I would definitely like this one.

I let him watch me slowly take my gloved hand up, opened my red lips for him and snaked out my tongue just enough to flick the cigar's end, giving him a better view of the steel that was piercing the tip of my tongue.

"You must tell me about it, one of these days," I told him.

"Yes, Ma'am," he said. The lust had won, I could tell. I smiled. Against shame and embarrassment, lust would always win.

"James doesn't just take anyone," I said, letting the words linger with the smoke that came with them, just as a cruel smile had come with them, turning my lips into a knowing sneer. "You should be proud, darling."

"I am aware of that, Ma'am."

"At all times."

"Yes, Ma'am."

I laughed quietly. No, not too many things had changed.

Except me, of course.

II.

James was the first in line, just as he was supposed to be, a mountain of muscles that could not be concealed, not completely, by the butler's uniform that showed off his position in my mother's household. Already in his fifties, his black marbled face had gathered some cracks and wrinkles, the perfectly shaved head from my memories now replaced by a distinguished stubble of white hair.

The crack I loved the most was the smile that split his fleshy lips open as the Rolls came to a halt, his walk still a show of strength and grace, an older panther, still on the prowl.

He opened the door for me, not without subservience, bowing down as I stepped out, my high heeled boots first, before I took his gloved hand, offered as a sign of help, not needed, but certainly appreciated. I snaked my body out of the back of the car, stretching it and looking at all that become mine.

The staff had been neatly placed to the left and right of the mansion's main doors, the maids all neatly dressed and at full attention, their postures rigid, their uniforms black and white and tight all over. There were a dozen of them, and their faces were turned down, their eyes firmly locked onto the ground.

I smiled.

The male staff was easy on the eye, most of them unknown to me, butlers and gardeners and handymen, more than enough to keep the household running smoothly at all times.

"Welcome home," said James as I let go of his hand and took a step forward. He had also turned his face down, waiting for me to give the permission to look at me.

I didn't.

"Your hand," I told him.

He knew what to do. James, with a bow, extended his hand to me, palms open and facing me, already expecting his first duty of the day, the first duty to me. Years of serving my mother had prepared him well.

I took a final drag off my cigar, letting it flow through my body once again, now mingling the smoke with the fresh and cold air of the early English morning, before I flicked the ash onto James' open hand, tainting the perfect black leather with my ash. With my exhale I crushed the cigar into his palm.

"You were expecting this," I said.

My mother's manservant did not look up, did not close his hand around the extinguished cigar, remained perfectly still. Oh, how I had been waiting for this moment! For him to stand there before me, just like that. It had been on my mind, had been in my dreams for years, so many years that I could feel the tingling running down my spine.

James didn't answer.

"Look at me," I told him.

He looked up, and found a face unfamiliar. Too smooth, too perfect to resemble the one he had known. When he had been the one towering above me. And had been the one telling me what to do.

When I had grown up here.

And had still been a boy.

"No, Ma'am," he said. "Not this. Not all of it."

"James," I said. "It's been ten years. People change"

"Your mother would have been proud, Ma'am."

I laughed. Ten years ago was when my mother had given me enough money to last a lifetime. Ten years ago she had given me everything I wanted. The means to find myself. To lose myself. To become a Lesslie in more than name and blood.

To become a Lesslie in spirit.

"Do you like?" I asked, laughingly.

"Ma'am, it is not my place -"

I lifted his face further up with one hand and slapped him across the cheek, suddenly and without mercy. He didn't move. Didn't flinch, even as my rubber-covered hand left a mark, turning his skin even darker than before. The first mark that was given to him by me, not by my mother. He didn't speak. Knew his place.

No wonder he had been my mother's favorite.

"I asked you a question," I said.

"You have become," he said, quietly.

"What?"

"What you always were," he said. "Your mother's daughter."

I touched James' chest, let my fingers travel down, black latex on top of white linen, a perfectly starched shirt, before reaching his pants, perfectly filled out and not hiding it, not anymore. Through the clothes, I could feel his shaft, thick and hardening, no longer curled up.

I had done this to him.

I let it go.

"You do like," I said to him as I leaned in, my lips close to his ear, each word a whisper, a promise.

My fingers wrapped themselves around his shaft, through the layers of clothing, barriers between our bodies. Cupping his balls, I could feel it twitch again, and still, there was no movement, no expression in the hulking black man's face. I squeezed and pulled them down. There it was. A short gasp. An acceptance. A plea. It was what I had dreamed of. What I had fantasized about, all those years ago.

That short expression of pain.

"I may have use for you yet, old man," I whispered.

His lips parted in that cracked smile.

"Yes, Ma'am," he said.

I nodded towards the mansion's assembled staff.

"Tell them," I ordered James.

Without another word, I walked towards the mansion's doors, passing the rest of the staff. without further acknowledgement.

There would be time enough to get acquainted with them, later. They would learn to know me. Would learn to obey me, just as they had obeyed my mother. As so many others had learned to know their rightful place within the halls of this house, through the centuries and the generations that had filled it with screams of pain, moans of lusts and pleas of mercy.

Behind me, James told them.

That I was now Mistress of the Mansion.

III.

It had caught up with me in Hong Kong.

It had been a voice on the other end of an intercom, speaking in Mandarin. Outside my office, the grey skies rained down on a chaotic assembly of buildings, shacks and houses that no amount of water, no amount of god's loving piss could ever clean. The filth down in the streets, gathering in the alleys accepted it, nonetheless.

I looked down on the city it inhabited. I looked down on them.

Crawling through the thing they called life. Obedient little things, they were, a trait that I had come to appreciate about the Chinese. They dared not look up. Dared not to dream themselves. Perfect, little bees. Buzzing in that strange language that could mean so many things.

Every now and then, for my own pleasure, I reached down onto those streets and decided to lift one of them up, to give one a glimpse of a life that was different. The voice on the other end of the intercom had been one of them. Had been living a low life, had been a boy, had been imperfect, before I saved him, turned him, made him not only a personal assistant.

"Mistress?" the voice said.

"What is it, Chan?" I replied. Even through the electronic distortion that made the voice a ghost in the machine, I could hear the apparent displeasure in my personal assistant's voice.

"There is a man here to see you. He knows your name."

"Everybody in Hong Kong knows my name. That is no reason to disturb me, Chan."

"Your real name, Mistress."

My real name. Now there was something that was reason enough to disturb me, in more ways than one. Men were not, not even powerful ones, of which I had become friends with, often quite intimately, over the years.

But they knew me in a different fashion. As their goddess, as their lover, as their mistress, and the name that had been spread throughout the streets of the city below, had only been whispered in the halls of politicians and businessmen, had been nothing more than a title.

The English Dragon, they called me.

I had never used my name, had never given them more than what they earned, what they deserved, that glimpse of the hell that I called my heaven.

My real name.

"Send him in, Chan," I told the intercom.

The door to my office opened. But no man came in, although the person who did had been male once. In a manner of speaking. The Asian men were already femme more often than not, and Chan - even in his filthiest state, which was the state

I had found him in - had already been an extraordinary specimen.

But now, after months of treatment and training, after surgery that had given him perky tits that filled out little less than a C cup, Chan had grown into someone even more unique.

She had been given a shape to fit her soul, and in turn had sworn to serve me. All in all, a mutually beneficial arrangement. A sister in spirit, a slave in body, Chan had exceeded all of my expectations, both inside the bed- and boardrooms we both shared.

Chan wore her new body well, and had chosen a simple business outfit for today, with a white blouse, a black pencil skirt and matching jackets, with only a steel collar around her neck indicating her to be anything else than a professional woman.

That and her long fingernails, too long and too perfectly painted to do any type of typing, groomed and shaped for beauty and nothing else.

Her hair had been part of the creation I had made. Colored and cut in a punk, asymmetrical fashion, it created a waterfall of blue that rushed down her left cheek and obscured one of her piercing, green eyes.

I watched her walk. Watched how she stepped aside to introduce the man who had followed her, quietly and with the typical rigor of an Englishman.

I snapped my fingers.

Chan understood and opened the humidor on the side of my desk. Her slim fingers lifted my cigarette holder from the box. It was a beautiful heirloom, and one of the things I had never parted with, in all of my travels.

Made from steel and silver, it was roughly six inches long and had a dragon furled up around it, emerald eyes that stared down its lengths as its tailed ran around its shaft, ending at the tip that would fit between my red lips. All the women in my family had owned one of these most rare of trinkets, and each time one of them had prepared for the traditional travels around the world, that woman's mother had gifted it to her daughter, to remind her of her status, her place in the world.

It was also the reason they called me the Dragon in this part of the world. Clients and friends, at least.

I lifted my hand and presented it to Chan, not giving that Englishman an inch of my attention. Never did like them to begin with. Lawyers, I mean. My delightful girl had already inserted a small cigar into the holder's shaft, and her attention to the ritual had been carefully honed, handing me the holder and placing it between my index and ring finger without me needing to give any further order.

And when I lifted the holder to my lips, Chan was already next to me, flicking open a thin lighter with her tender fingers and igniting a warm, yellow flame that hissed against the dark, flavored tobacco, transforming it creamy, cum-like smoke flowing down the holder's shaft and entering my mouth.

I took a deep breath and snap inhaled.

The lawyer watched. The lawyer licked his lips.

I thanked Chan by blowing smoke into her face, holding her chin up and forcing her mouth open, streaming my breath and smoke into her. She accepted it with closed eyes, her voice a thankful whimper.

"Thank you, darling," I said.

"Thank you, mistress."

"You may leave us alone now."

Chan averted her eyes from my gaze and quietly existed the office.

I knew why the lawyer was here, of course. The fact that he had known my name, had dared to speak it out loud, had been more than a giveaway.

"It is time, then, is it?"

"I am afraid so, Lady Lesslie," the lawyer replied.

I turned away from him. It wasn't that he wasn't easy on the eyes, in that proper and pedantic way the purely bred Englishmen can be, with their slicked back hair and the slight growth of stubble on chins and cheeks that showed a long day's journey.

It was the news he would indubitably deliver to me, any moment now.

"Do you have the letter?" I asked him.

"Yes, Lady Lesslie."

I drew a long drag from my cigar and stopped before it filled my heart, letting it instead seep from my lips and against the office's window, rising up and curling in the air, like long-lost memories.

"Read it to me."

IV.

My mother's office was nothing like mine. Or anybody else's, for that matter. I had grown to prefer simplicity over the years, an art deco style that decorated the life of someone who had been on the road so long that there never had been too much time to accumulate possessions that could clutter up rooms.

But mother's office had always a miniaturized reflection of what the entire mansion was. Memories, caught in memorabilia, relics and reminders of generations that had sitting been on the throne still dominating the room.

It had been my mother's favorite. A monster made from darkened, polished wood and soft burgundy cushions that could let you drop your bottom into them, while your clawed fingers rested comfortably to each side on aged armrests that were shaped once again like our family's crest symbol, fiery dragon faces that growled silently at those who stood or knelt before you.

The rest of the office furniture was no match for the throne, and whether it was book shelves or guest chairs, all aged just as well as the throne itself, were like dwarves in comparison, almost shamefully hiding or hugging the room's walls.

It was still easy to see mother sitting here, my memories of her bigger than life and not so easily to bring to an end. It had been a car accident. Considering that mother had loved cars that were fast and furious, like she loved her lovers, that came hardly as a surprise.

Me, I preferred a driver.

Looking back on it, so should have mother.

I slipped out of my fur coat as I approached the heavy desk that stood between me and the throne behind it. No work had ever been done on it, at least not in any conventional sense. Its surface was polished dark wood, the most prominent features an ashtray in the shape of an opened mouth, its teeth being the perfect place to put down your cigar while resting, with the rest of the ashtray having been sculpted around it, resembling a blackened rubber face that had been encased, with no chance of escape, into the very desk itself.

I had always been my mother's daughter, I thought to myself as the simple sight of such marbled pain and sculpted ecstasy made my clit hard. Even when my body had not been this display of perfection and had been just a boy, the feeling of dominance had always been the ties that had bound us together, her and me.

Ties that were linked, all the way through the centuries and passed from mother to daughter and had brought pain to countless of servants by pleasuring their masters and mistresses.

This was what she had left me.

This was what would be my inheritance.

I sat down on the throne and let my fingernails scratch ever so slightly across its armrests, imagining it to be the thickened skin of all those servants, waiting for their deserved pain. If I could have purred, I would have.

This was my home now.

My time to shine. Finally.

I silently thanked her. Mother, I thought, don't worry.

I will live up to those expectations.

V.

Mother's wishes had been quite detailed, written down on expensive paper, catalogued and listed and placed in a brown envelope that the English lawyer read to me after I had given him the permission to do so.

Still not looking at him, my voice a firm, strong sound that whipped through my Hong Kong office, I told him to "fucking raise your voice, you English cunt."