ENFORCED HUMILIATION OF A SISSY MAID
by
Jo Santana
SMASHWORDS EDITION
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PUBLISHED BY:
Miro Books
Enforced Humiliation of a Sissy Maid
Copyright © 2010 by Jo Santana
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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ENFORCED HUMILIATION OF A SISSY MAID
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ENFORCED HUMILIATION OF A SISSY MAID
I got home as usual just after nine o’clock. I had just made my final call on our store in Catford, one of the eighteen stores that made up my business empire, Mada markets. I had taken over the business from my father who had started off as a barrow boy in the East End of London, selling potatoes and fruit to the local Cockney customers. Times have changed a lot since then. In the old days, he used to get up at three o’clock in the morning, take his barrow down to Covent Garden and fill it with wholesale produce. Then onto the market where he stocked up his stall and spent the rest of the day selling fruit and vegetables. Eventually he got tired of the rough and tumble life of the markets and bought himself a provisions shop, which he quickly turned into a thriving mini market. A second shop followed than a third and fourth.
He would have continued had a heart attack not stopped him when he was only forty seven. I was working with him in the business and it was only natural that I’d take over and carry on building the empire that he’d always wanted to bequeath to his family.
So I worked my balls off, seven days a week, sometimes as many as twenty hours a day, coming home only to collapse into bed exhausted beyond belief then to crawl up four hours later to begin again. Yet I managed to continue expanding the business at a rate that would have gladdened my father. Eventually, I wound up with a total of eighteen stores and a company that I was even considering listing in the alternative investment market if things went well enough in the future. The problem was, they were not going well.
The stress had taken its toll on my mind and body so much so that when I got home, instead of having time to spend with my beautiful wife Christine, who I had married when I was twenty, ten years ago, I took a bottle of vodka for companionship instead. I sometimes wonder why Christine could put up with so much, a husband that was rarely home and when he was home was usually intoxicated. But she did, although there were times when she begged me to stop the drinking, seeing as how it was destroying me.
It wasn’t just destroying me, however. Like most alcoholics, and obviously I was at this stage an alcoholic, it completely clouded my judgment and business acumen. I failed to see why I couldn’t drink half a bottle of vodka and still go out and give of my best to the business day after day, but she did. So the business suffered, the balance sheet went from bad to worse and so did my drinking. I worried from morning to night about how I could stop the business from collapsing around my ears and leaving me and Christine homeless and destitute, bankrupt and living on state benefits. Finally, things came to a head.
I got up on that particular Friday morning, and Christine put toast on the table for me, together with a cup of hot black coffee. It was a brave attempt to start me off sober, but as usual I headed for the drinks cabinet and poured a huge shot of vodka into a glass intended for my orange juice and swigged it down. I rarely ate the toast, but on this occasion I thought I’d give it a try to maybe mitigate some of the effects of the vodka and at least give me half a chance of putting in a decent day’s work. I took a couple of bites but it tasted to my vodka addled brain like soggy cardboard, so I tossed it to one side and refilled my glass. I realised I had gone a little bit overboard and my orange juice tumbler was three quarters full with vodka, so I topped it up with orange juice so that Christine would not be upset. It was a stupid thing to do, she knew exactly what I was doing, but I was so stewed that I couldn’t really tell one day from another, or day from night, let alone what she was thinking. Even for me it was a lot of booze at that time of the morning.
The post arrived and I decided to relax for a few minutes in an armchair while I went through the letters. The next thing I knew was being woken up by a hammering on the door. I open my eyes and looked at the clock, with a feeling of horror I realised that it was already midday, I had been asleep for four hours.
“Christine, will you go and open that fucking door, and why didn’t you wake me up, why did you let me sleep for so long?”
There was no reply, so I staggered to my feet, still obviously half drunk and went to answer the door. Two guys stood there, I didn’t like the look of them. They looked a little bit seedy but were obviously pretty tough, their cheap suits stretched over bulging muscles. They looked like ex-boxers, I wondered what the hell they were doing at my door.
“Yes,” I said to them sharply. “What the hell do you want?”
“Mr Adam?” One of them asked me. “Mr Stephen Adam?”
“Yes, I’m Mr Adam,” I replied. “Now what do you want?”
“We represent Curtis and Rathbone, licensed bailiffs. We have an order from the court to remove some of your goods to pay for certain outstanding debts, to the amount of,” he looked at the sheet of paper he had in his hand. “Oh yes, the amount being claimed is for £26,115.24. Here we are, this is your copy of the court order.”
He handed me the order and with a sinking heart I read through it. It was exactly as he had said, a writ from one of my suppliers for unpaid bills.
“But why haven’t I heard about this before, why hasn’t anybody written to me about it?” I asked him.
“I can assure you, Mr Adam, we did write you about it, several times, and the suppliers have been writing to you for the past four months. You had every opportunity to pay, now we’ll have to do remove enough of your goods to cover the debt.”
“You’ll have to wait a moment, I’ll contact my solicitor.”
“Fair enough, do what you want, we’ll just wait here until you’ve made the call. But I must warn you that we’re not leaving without the goods.”
I had no doubt that he meant to carry out the threat, they looked a pair of experienced heavies. I knew that I would be no match for them if it came to a struggle. I slammed the door shut and picked up my phone.
“Charles and Charles, Solicitors,” came the reply.
“I need to speak to Hannibal Charles,” I said. “This is Stephen Adam of Mada markets, tell him it’s extremely urgent, I’ll hold.”
She went away and after several minutes that seemed interminable, Hannibal came on the phone.
“Stephen, Hannibal here,” he said. “I was just leaving for court, so I’ve only got a few minutes. How can I help you?”
I quickly explained the problem.
“My word, that does sound bad. Can’t you just give them the money and send them away?”
“I don’t have it, Hannibal,” I told him. “The business has been going through a difficult time lately, we’ll get over it soon but at the moment I’m totally stretched. What can I do?”
He was silent for a few moments. Then his voice came back on the line.
“Stephen, I’m going to send a paralegal over to you with a document that that will freeze everything for seven days. Keep them outside and don’t let them in. Just wait until she gets there, it shouldn’t be more than about fifteen minutes.”
I thanked him and put the phone down. Then I heard Christine’s car pull up in the drive, it was a bright red Mercedes SLK with the drop roof, she had the top open now and was wearing a scarf I’d bought her last year when we were on holiday in Paris. She looked enchantingly beautiful and I was wracked with guilt at the problems that she was coming home to.
As she reached the door I went and opened it a fraction and made her squeeze through the opening, then slam the door shut and locked it again before the bailiffs could get in.
“Stephen, what the fuck is going on here, who are those men?”
“Christine, I’m really sorry, they’re bailiffs, they come to seize some of our possessions to pay for unpaid debts that I’ve run up.”
She looked shocked. “I can’t believe it, I knew the business hadn’t been so good lately, but I had no idea it was that much in debt. Are things really that bad?”
I told her that in fact they were, although when the paralegal arrived we would at least have a few days grace.
“Why have you let it go so long, why didn’t you do something about it before, you must have known for ages that things were getting really bad?”
I stood there silently, the answer was obvious and I didn’t like to say it. She had no such reservations.
“It’s the booze, isn’t it? You’ve been so drunk for the past year, or even more, that you haven’t a clue what’s going on. It’s true, isn’t it?”
I nodded. The reality finally hit me, that it really was going down the tubes. Everything that I had worked for and my father before me, that Christine at work for, that supported hundreds of employees in the eighteen stores. The whole business, threatened with bankruptcy and everything that went with it. We would probably lose the house, the cars, that fancy little Mercedes SLK she’d just driven up in, snatched away by the likes of the two heavies who were still waiting outside.
“So what are we going to do?” she asked me.
“I really don’t know, Christine,” I replied. “I just haven’t got a clue. I think that this is the end, I honestly do, the company is hopelessly in debt.”
“The problem is,” she said to me, “whatever we do, even if there is a possibility to save the company, as long as you keep drinking, you’ll drive everything into the ground. And that includes our marriage.”
“You mean you’d leave me, if the business goes bankrupt?” I asked.
“No, I don’t mean that at all,” she said. “What I’m telling you is that your drinking is wrecking our lives, our personal lives, our business lives, our finances and our social life. It’s destroying everything, Stephen. It’s time you faced reality.”
She was interrupted by a knock at the door. I opened it carefully, but it was only the paralegal from Hannibal Charles. She handed me a document. “This is a legal order that requires the bailiffs to wait seven days before actually removing your goods,” she said. “It will give you time to get the debt paid, but if you don’t pay it off within seven days they won’t need anything more, they can just break the door down and take everything they want.”
I thanked her and told her I would contact Hannibal in the afternoon. Then I gave the document to the two bailiffs who read it with a somewhat crestfallen expression on their faces. They knew exactly what it was and what it meant and didn’t even try and argue it. Before they left, though, they managed to have the last word.
“We’ll be back, Mr Adam, next week with a removal van. Either you pay the debt or surrender your goods, you won’t get away with it again.”
Then they drove off and I breathed a sigh of relief that the emergency was at least over.
“Christine, thank God that’s over for now. Could you get me a drink?”
“A drink?” she said with an astonished note in her voice. “You fucking mad?”
I goggled at her. Her voice had a note of steel that I had never heard before.
“I’m not mad, it’s just been a very stressful time.”
“A stressful time? What do you think living with a drunken alcoholic for the last twelve months has been like?” she asked me.
“Look, I know things have been difficult lately and maybe I’ve had one or two drinks too many, but there’s no need to be nasty,” I said to her.
“Stephen, you’ve been drinking like a fish from morning till night, it’s a miracle that you haven’t killed yourself with cirrhosis of the liver.”
“It’s not been that bad, Christine,” I said. “Besides, with all of the pressures, I needed some way of relaxing.”
“I thought you did that by wearing my clothes,” she spat out.
My heart went to ice, my brain went numb. She knew. For most of my life I had enjoyed occasionally dressing up in women’s clothes, sometimes even wearing a wig and make up. On one mad occasion, before I met Christine, I had even dressed myself to be totally convincing as a woman and had gone into town and walked around. As far as I knew, no one had the least inkling of what I had been doing. Obviously I was wrong. I tried to bluff on my way out of it.
“Don’t be ridiculous. What makes you think that I dress in women’s clothes?”
“You remember the security system the insurance company insisted on when we increased the cover on the house and contents?”
I told her that I recalled it vaguely, but obviously I was too drunk to remember many of the details.
“So you don’t remember that part of the deal with the insurance company was that we had security cameras installed around the house? I check those cameras every now and then to see what’s been going on and a few months ago I noticed a strange woman walking around the house. At first I thought you had a girlfriend, then I enhanced the image and realised it was you.”