Mail-order girl

He glanced around the airport arrivals hall. The flight had landed twenty minute ago. What if… what if she wasn’t coming? What if the whole plan had been a charade, a fraud?

His pulse raced.

It couldn’t have been real – could it? To be able to hire – buy – a girl from this far-away land in Eastern Europe. To work for him. And more.

For the organisers to have the contacts to bribe the way to arranging her visa.

For the flight to be booked. For her to turn up.

And then she was there.

In front of him, walking towards her, pushing a trolley bearing one large, battered black suitcase. Prettier than he’d imagined. Much prettier.

So it was real.

She spoke first. Softly, nervously. “Dr. Jenkins?”

“Indeed. And you must be Katerina.”

“Yes, Sir.”

The ‘Sir’. Very nice. He noticed that. Liked it. She’d been well taught.

“Well, you’d better follow me, Katerina.”

“Yes, Sir.” A nice, sing-song sort of accent.

He reached for her bag, a gentleman as always, and then stopped, remembering Aleksander’s instructions. “Don’t spoil her,” he’d said. “Don’t ever let her forget her position.”

—

She sat quietly beside him as he drove through the dark night. Nervous? Shy? Struggling with the language? He wondered.

He wondered too how much she knew. How clear she was on his agreement with her ‘sponsor’, as Aleksander so neatly described himself.

Wondered about her life at home, and what had brought her here.

It was quiet when they reached the village, the peace disturbed as his tyres scrunched on the gravel as he turned into his drive. He watched her: eyes, wide open, taking in her new home.

He led her into the house, and this time took her bag from her. “You won’t be needing this,” he said, firmly.

“But it has my things.”

“While you are in my house, you have no things.”

She gazed up at him, in disbelief. “But my photographs, my clothes.”

“You have memories. And we’ll deal with your clothes.” He took her by the wrist, gently but firmly, and took her into the living room.

The uniform rested on the table. “These are your clothes, young lady.”

“But my own clothes?”

“You may give them to me.”

Slowly, blinking back tears, she nodded.

He placed a finger under her chin, and lifted her eyes to his. “You do understand why you’re here, Katerina?”

“Yes, Sir. I am here to serve you as you wish.”

“Good girl.” Did she really understand what he wished? How she was to serve?

“Get changed.”

Obediently, she reached forward and picked up the pile of clothes. “Where should I go, sir?”

“Nowhere. Here will be fine.”

Wide-eyed. “But you want me to change?”

“I do.”

She waited. Wondering, hoping that he would leave the room. Realising that he wouldn’t. Praying that this wasn’t happening.

“You have one minute, or I shall change your clothes myself.”

He looked at the clock on the wall, watching the second hand tick. She followed his gaze. Ten seconds, twenty.

Thirty.

Forty. “Don’t disobey me, Katerina.”

Fifty.

Fifty two.

She reached for the hem of her sweater, hesitating still.

Fifty four.

Fifty six.

And she lifted the hem, and pulled off the sweater, discarding it on the floor.

Her trainers followed. Socks, jeans. The T-shirt with Cyrillic text that that he couldn’t decipher.

She looked down as she removed her bra, crossing her arms as she bared her pale breasts, now clad only in those flimsy black panties.

She stopped.

“I’m waiting, Katerina.”

Arms folded still, shaking her head.

“Last chance.”

Standing still.

She gasped as he took her ear, and pulled her to the end of the sofa, thrusting her over its arm. “You’d better learn from the start that I will not have disobedience in my house, young woman.”

He unbuckled his belt, wondering how familiar that sound would be to her, guessing that a father who could sell her to Aleksander would doubtless have been more than able to discipline his daughter. Her sob confirmed his assumption.

He slid down her knickers.

She was pleading before he started. She pleaded plenty more as the leather landed hard across her backside. Begged for him to stop as the pain intensified. Prayed for his forgiveness before he laid down the strap.

Only ten strokes. But enough.

He made her stand in the corner of the room. Hands on head. Facing outwards, exposing her body to his stare.

Made her dress in the maid’s uniform: gray skirt, white blouse.

Led her upstairs, took her to her plain, bare room. “You’ll sleep here. Unless I tell you otherwise.” He wondered if she understood the implication; from her face, he could tell that she did.

He continued: “You have not made a good first impression, have you, Katerina?”

“No, Sir.”

“Things will get better, won’t they, Katerina?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“And do you know what will happen if they don’t improve, Katerina? How I will punish you?”

Crying: “Yes, Sir.”

No, sir, he thought. You don’t understand. You can’t even begin to understand how I will train you, discipline you, punish you.

“It’s now 10.40. Unless I tell you otherwise, your bedtime in future is 10 o’clock.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“And you will get up at 6.30 each morning. Again, unless I tell you otherwise.”

“Yes, Sir. Please – is there an alarm clock?”

“No. You’ll get used to waking up on time, I’m sure.”

“Yes, Sir. I’m sorry for asking.”

“As it’s your first night, I shall leave you to undress alone. You will sleep naked, of course. Fold your clothes neatly on the chair next to your bed. And you had better be in bed with the lights off in five minutes. Or else.”

“Yes, sir.”

He lifted her face upwards again: “Good night, Katerina.”

“Good night, Sir.”

And he turned to leave the room, pleased with his new purchase.