The House of Lesslie

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."
"Dearest Tara," the lawyer read.