WEEK ONE: SUNDAY

After our family Sunday church, grandfather caught me lingering in the churchyard, as was my habit. I prefer the quiet of the stones to the chatter of the church hall. "You there! George!"

I worried as I always worried when grandfather wanted me for something. I sighed. At least Beryl was standing next to him. "Yes. Grandfather?"

"Beryl here suggested something. Put all that fancy education I paid for to use. Come with us to the house."

That was the old group captain, never a "please" or a "thank you." I was estimating how to dodge the old man when I saw Beryl smiling, dimples and all, hinting that it might not be such an onerous task after all. "All right." I could never say no to her.

Everyone else in my family preferred to live in London so the manor always looked desolate, grey and damp, like and old sea cave. Inside, it was a quiet as a morgue. Our way of life was dying. Christmas was near but no decorations were up. I pitied poor Beryl, worn down trying to keep the place tidy. I had forgotten about the maid.

"Lord Carfax!" Carmen shouted angrily. The plump Spanish girl stomped up to the old man. Grandfather was old but he was not bent. He met the angry Spanish woman fury with the cool resolve of a glacier.

"I have told you, the temperature is quite bad. I am freezing." She hugged her heavy chest to illustrate.

"Miss Fuentes, I turn the heat down at night in the name of efficiency. As I have told you before, if you are cold, wear as sweater."

"I can not wear sweater and work. I quit. This is my two week notice." She threw up her hands.

"Very well." Grandfather put on a stern face. "But don't expect a good letter."

Miss Fuentes swore and stormed off, presumably to get a sweater. This was another disaster. Beryl couldn't do it all. Just when we were trying to sell the place, things would grow even more unkempt. The likelihood of getting a local girl to help out was slim; the job simply didn't pay enough, not when they could get a job at the docks for three times as much.

"Come along, George." Grandfather was used to flying on after losing a crewmember. To my relief we were walking to my favorite room in the house, the library. It was added on to the house in the early Victorian era. It was beautifully paneled in walnut and stocked with rare folios. But it was dark. The cathedral window had been bricked up. Family gossip had it that the Lord ran out of money before he could complete his vision. We had the glass in storage, somewhere.

Grandfather escorted me in and showed me all my beloved treasures like I had never seen them before. "Beryl says there might be something in here worth money. I want you to look into it. I had an inventory done a while back." He frowned viciously like he had swallowed a bitter pill. "It should be in those cabinets over there. Ring my solicitor if you cannot find them, he has carbon copies of everything.

How long before I can expect a report?"

This was a favorite old military trick of his. He'd offer you a timeline, to make one feel in control but he really just locked in a timetable. He also liked measurements of time in weeks. "Two weeks and four days."

"Why four days?"

"No work on Sunday or Christmas or New Year's, grandfather."

"Hmph. Quite right. Very well. End of December then." He walked off to brood.

"Two weeks!" Beryl was worried for me.

"It's easy. I know these old things well enough. I have all I need from my salad days at Oxford. I just scan in the inventories and email them off to a bookseller I know. He's an old friend and I can count on him for the truth. The only thing he will count on me for is an estimate of their condition. Seems straightforward enough.

There's a first edition Winnie the Pooh and The Hobbit on that shelf. I can ring Sotheby's right now if I wanted."

"Will they save our home?"

"In another economy, maybe. The whole collection will fetch about a hundred thousand pounds but that is all. Marjorie and Heath will know more. Don't get your hopes up."

"I won't. I was just thinking..."

"Hello! I'm the gloomy member of this family, remember?" I chucked her under her round, dimpled chin. She had dimpled cheeks too. "Fairy kisses" Auntie had called them. "Right. Fetch me some sandwiches and let's set to work."

The cabinets grandfather indicated were near the window. The inventory was there, sure enough, even the old typewriter that created them. They were typed onto large index cards and kept in old burgundy colored cardboard boxes. There were dozens of boxes of three hundred count, sorted by year of publication. All the shelves had been ticked quite precisely. I was able to find anything, instantly.

In a large house, with vaulted ceilings, the reading light is never as good as it ought. I had developed a custom of placing two reading lamps over my material and shutting off all other light to save energy and money.

After a few hours, my back grew stiff so I decided to lie out on the reading bench by the window. I had never used it in the past because the brick rendered it so dark and chilling. I didn't keep in fighting trim as I used to in college. As I lay on the boards I noticed the hinge. It was fashioned out of ironwood, flush with the boards, and carefully blended in with the walnut as to be almost invisible. There was storage beneath the bench.

Simply out of curiosity, I lifted the lid. Beneath the bench were dozens upon dozens of Times dating back to the Blitz. The print was brittle as a wasp's nest and yellowed and spotted with mold. I lifted out the editions, hoping for a find. But not one was worth a tinker's dam.

Then I found the book.

I knew it was very old. It was as large and as thick as a down pillow. The cover was of simple, dun colored embossed leather of a kind I did not recognize. I looked at the side. The pages were obviously made of vellum, shaved sheep's belly. No one used vellum since the time linen sheets became widely available. The pages were sewn together with undyed wool thread. An enormous black stain ran down more than two thirds of the leaves. The stain seemed to originate from a bulge in the binding.

I plunked the damn thing down on its spine and let it open to where it would. The bulge was caused by a gold fountain pen. Its well had ruptured, stained the book and glued the forwarding pages together. A wide red silk ribbon bookmark trailed from its spine. It had somehow escaped being stained.

I wanted to read an earlier page but I was afraid to damage the sheets, especially when a razor, plain water and a toothbrush should remove most of the stain. However, I was able to gingerly peel back a corner a few pages deep. A few words were visible from underneath the blob of indigo. It was Latin, my old friend. That didn't really surprise me considering the book's apparent age. I clucked my tongue at the carelessness of the last user. The reason why they proctors forbade even pocketed pens in the Rare Book Room hit home. I then read the only legible words. "...as always, he arrived home safe and sound." It was written in what we at Oxford termed "Schoolboy Latin' with a modern, square nib fountain pen.

This book intrigued me. It was obviously old; old as some of the Lancaster Folios or illuminated manuscripts I had researched. Who would dare write in it with a modern pen and then ruin it?

I guessed that it was a fraud. People often came across old paper and use it to forge Shakespeare plays and the like. I heard they do much the same with antique canvas and paintings. Still, that didn't sit quite right.

I flipped through the remaining, unstuck pages. They were all blank. At the time, I dismissed it as a replica piece or a fraud, made to look old, hardly worth the notice. I fancied taking to my cabin and unbinding it for novelty stationary. I was able to squeeze one end it into my rucksack. For tidiness' sake, I pocketed the gold fountain pen and replaced the folds of newsprint and continued the rest of the appraising.

"How goes the inventory, George?" I didn't notice him come in.

"Hm? Fine grandfather. Beryl was right, we may have a pretty penny here."

"Hmph. Won't be near enough." And just when he was about to leave he stopped near the door. It was the oddest thing. For the first time in my life I saw the old man look unsure. "George. I want you to promise me something."

"What?" I tried to conceal my shock. I had never seen the old soldier so deferential.

"If you find....an old book, something that is not on the inventory, tell me immediately, won't you?"

"Certainly grandfather." For some reason the blank vellum didn't come to mind. "I found some old newspapers."

"No. Just books. I came in to tell you dinner is ready."

Dinner was quiet and tense. Dinners were always quiet but now they held a sense of doom that would have done Poe proud. Beryl was quite the cook but the two guinea fowl I had brought in yesterday failed to cheer the old man.

I left soon after helping Beryl with her dishes. Carmen should have done them. She was already shirking her duties. With the promise of a poor letter of recommendation, grandfather left her with no incentive to work. Beryl did not leave for her usual after supper jaunt with her friends. She pretended not to mind but I knew better. Beryl's social circle meant everything to her.

As I drove home I worried for the fate of my little sister. She should have been in university, not serving as maid in her own house.

The light and heat was better for examining the book in my cottage anyway. The tome was hefty enough. My desk squeaked as I placed it down. "I can at least unlace you and pawn your sheets for a few bob." I told it. I opened the book. This time it fell to a page obverse of the last words.

"Little did anyone know that beneath the last flagstone of Miller Steps lay a small fortune in coins."

I was sure that the page was blank before. But there it was, in Latin that would have done Cicero proud. Then I recalled the series of stone steps right by the cabin, near the waterfall. The steps led to the foundation of an old mill. I decided to check after school.

School dragged by. I enjoyed teaching, when I was allowed to do it. As the new teacher the Proctors had seen fit to saddle me with the children of the new immigrant laborers. They were a nice enough lot, mostly Indians and Pakistanis. But have you ever tried to instruct Bronte' to a group of non-native English speakers? The Irish seemed to get it quickly enough when they weren't playing out their own personal dramas.

The School Board's curriculum was hopelessly out of date. I do not think they knew to whom I was teaching. Or they knew and they cared only that "proper books" appeared on the reading list. It was like they expected my class to be a scene out of Pygmalion.

My students had other plans. They were going to matriculate, get a job working cranes, like their dads, and spend their nights at the pub. It wasn't that they were stupid or rotten, it was just that the problems of Jane Eyre were not relevant to them. So any time I taught it was constant struggle. Would you read a thousand page of book about something that had not connection with you?

I honestly do not have any problem with planning to work for a living. The world needs construction workers more than poets. But there are other things to life, good things. I wasn't a good enough teacher to show my pupils that.

With their mean future assured, the school's student body seemed to take pride in how poorly they dressed and how rudely they behaved. Who did they need to impress? Fine literature had no place in most of their parent's lives as well.

My colleagues added to my daily burden. The school served as the dumping ground for tenured deadweight. The duffers in the language department eyed me warily. The fossils in the Humanities Department ran the gamut form raging alcoholics to unappreciated poets. There were no women in either department. The only women my age were married missionary types who were grossly hostile to me.

Mrs. Violet Sheffield was as tight, hard and cold as spring steel. Her blue eyes added an edge to her dark hair and pale complexion. She was a product of centuries of breeding and decades of boarding schools. She was teacher to assuage a bad case of upper class guilt, just waiting for pregnancy to take her away form "all this."

Allow me to give you a peak into the life of the upper crust. The only people the upper class is snobbier to than the poor are impoverished upper class, like me. They see us as an embarrassment, a failure and a traitor in some ways. We are like the goalies that dropped a crucial play. So old Violet treated me with the same contempt.

The way Mrs. Amy Fife carried on, you would have thought she was the physician and not her husband. I smoked, drank and generally had too much fun for her liking. Conversations with her wavered were more like stern lectures.

And here I was thinking Puritanism went out with Oliver Cromwell. Well it isn't. The old black hats aren't in town halls any more, they congregate in health clubs and drink fruit smoothies. Amy Fife was the high priestess of political correctness, enough to make the Greens blush.

The rest of the women seemed...damaged somehow, like the cars you see that run just fine with the door left bashed in. The lunchroom never provided me with the rest needed to face the rest of the day. The minutes crept by. I couldn't wait to escape my prison and see if the book spoke true.

As soon as school was over, I drove home, fetched a bar and torch and set to work prying that last step apart. Looking for a weakness, I notice that a whole side of a flight was not mortared. I pried at that. The slab fell down with a heavy thud. Inside, I found the skeletons of two children.

I backed my mini in and used her headlights to see things better. One child had been wounded. I found an arrowhead in the rib of the larger and the smaller had a smashed in face. I found no buckles or buttons so I assumed they were in nightshirts. Inside the frame of rotten wood I found a small ceramic jar of Spanish gold doubloons and silver so black I couldn't identify them.

I took up the coins. With the help of a portable windlass, I winched the stone back into place and said a prayer over the remains.

The Trove Laws are very specific, except when it came to occasional coin. I plotted what to do with my newfound wealth. I could even send Beryl off to university, maybe. But then who would look after the place? "Damn that bitch Carmen anyway!' There I was, a crock of gold in my hand, shouting in the dark.

I returned to review the miraculous book. I opened it to the new page and considered the enormity of what just happened. It wasn't a lark anymore. Was it a sign? The work of the Devil? I had heard of such things before only as fiction. To have it come to pass was almost more than mind could handle. I held one disc of golden evidence in my hand. I turned it over in my fingertips.

I thought about it. I wondered. "Does the book allow me to see to the past, the future? Dare I alter anything?" I returned to the page. Again, there was more writing, answering my question.

"Kill your horse."

Now I had this horse, old Telamon. He was a grand thing in his day. I had put him out to pasture myself and I had no small affection for the beast. Now the book had miscalculated. I had always been the sort willing to rule in hell than serve in heaven. I was not going to be manipulated by family OR book.

"O-ho! You are that kind of book are you? Now what? You'll take away my fortune?" I hefted the crock. "Well mister devil-book, if I cared about money I'd be a banker. So I'll just take these coins and my soul and be on my way; thank you very much! I'll go start a fire now." I set about kindling my well-used hearth. After the oak was caught well and good, I went back to fetch open book with every intention of using its pages to warm my house "You see, I have read too many horror stories in my day."

But there was other writing. Latin it was, perfect as ever. What was it using for sand and blotter?

"George considered Beryl. Without Carmen, his beloved free-spirited sister would work herself ragged. With the book he could scriven Carmen a new life as the perfect maid. She wouldn't stay out of pity. Perhaps she would stay for love. Motivation would be very important. Everything would have to seem logical and natural. If he altered history he risked not finding the book."

"Oh! So that's it now is it? We know who is boss, don't we. It's me; the man with the fire. The problem is Mister Devil Book, I don't fuck servants. It's wrong. Haven't you heard the old joke about the lad that got caught by his father fucking a sheep? 'At least I'm not fucking the maid, dad.' Fuck the sheep, just don't fuck the servants. It's messy, expensive and exploitive. Besides, who would ever prick that fat old cow anyway? No Mister Devil Book, I think I better just burn you now."

Just then the hearth wood fell, spilling a log over the fender. In the time it took me to tend to the brand, the book had more writing.

"George speculated that his writing could alter Carmen's physical appearance as well as her mind. Isn't one as difficult as the other? She had arrived in England only recently so he theoretically alter all the way to the point of her birth and not affect his life. He wondered if he was a good enough writer to meet the challenge."

I laughed out loud. "Okay. You got me. This I have to see." I poured myself another tall one and got to work.

Like every aspiring writer, I had one good pen. The Mont Blanc was worthy of the vellum. At the time I didn't see anything wrong in enslaving another person's will. I think I still didn't believe that writing on some bloody old sheaf could alter a person's life. So I had a bit of fun, over-the-top as the Yanks say. The rough vellum took some getting used to, but in the end I got the hang of it. It turned out I had some sand and a good blotter in my desk.

"Carmen awoke in sweat. Again that gorgeous man, George Carfax had invaded her dreams. Each time he took her roughly, the way she liked it, without any silly foreplay (actually that was the way I liked it) The sheet soaking dreams began the day she first met him. It wasn't love at first sight, it was worship. He was her pagan god of lust and all she desired to do was writhe on his altar.

One of the erotic dreams had him naked, strong as bull and as well hung, sitting in wooden throne while she danced naked in front of a huge bonfire. His dick was flaccid. She knew it was her goal to get his dick to harden. Somewhere in the distance, musicians, most with drums, played a primitive beat. She danced, shook and twisted, her long hair streaking across the night sky. She loved the feel of the cold air on her bare skin. (that last bit was fun).

As she brushed her gorgeous man's hairy leg she would catch glimpses of his manhood. It made her mouth water. When she tickled his legs with her hair she so it begin to rise at last! She dove on it, sucking for all she was worth. Then he pushed her off onto the grass. He was angry.

She turned her face away from her master, her pagan god and prostrated herself on her elbows and knees. She was crying, she thought she had rushed it, ruined everything. Then she felt his hands on her rump and her inner folds parting. She was filled to bursting and it felt really, really good. Life had meaning. She could hear the others of the ritual shriek in sympathetic joy.

She felt perfect love rushing through her veins. He pumped perfect bliss into her cunt. She would do anything for this man, gladly and without reservation. She loved him. As fate had ordained, whenever she felt him splash inside of her, she would awaken with a rollicking good orgasm.

Lately, her dreams had invaded her real life. She couldn't bend over a bed without fantasizing that the strong, hung like a bull, Master George was taking her from behind with that huge cock of his. She knew it was wrong. She knew it was sick. But she had to admit it was what she wanted, with all her heart and soul. For months the tension built it her heart until she was sure she would burst. Every second alone with him was an agony of want.

And that was another thing about those dreams, he was her master too. She was his slave, a slave of love. She would do anything he said, gladly. She shivered in delight just to think of the nasty, forbidden things he had demanded of her in her dreams. She could never leave Carfax Manor. She would work for free, anything to stay close to her dream man. Noticing how he favored the nice Miss Beryl, she started taking and extra effort to help her out and ease her day. Her admiration for her mistress grew until she thought of herself as Miss Beryl's good right hand. Miss Beryl was the Lady of that house and Carmen was her faithful servant and was glad to serve such a wonderful young woman. A neat, beautiful house, serving a kind Lady and a great man, her life was a fulfilling one."

It was about then I remembered what Carmen looked like. She was a hirsute, chunky and squat Mediterranean. The notion of her chasing me around did not please. There was too much to amend. I re-read the book's tips and kept things bit less dramatic. I refused to brook the notion of her hairy body but stopped short of making her a Nordic goddess. I took the book's hint and re-wrote the she-beast without borrowing too much from Cervantes.

Since coming to England, Carmen Fuentes had metamorphosed into a classic Spanish beauty. It was her theory that bathing in cold Cornish water had done it. Now she reveled in its transformational power.

Her hair grew very quickly, it was now long, wavy, black hair and fuller, livelier and more youthful than she ever experienced. She usually wore it up. When she took the pins out it fell to the small of her back. It shined with life of its own.

Conversely, her head was the only place Carmen allowed any body hair. She shaved everywhere else. Her lip was clean and her eyebrows plucked to perfect arches. She enjoyed the smooth feel of her legs after shaving. After an inspirational moment, it became her morning ritual; she would shave her legs, stroke them and then work her way up her vagina. Then she would masturbate furiously, imagining George was taking her.

After the invigorating cold morning bath, she had come to enjoy heavy housework and the pounds fell off. She now had a dancer's figure. Her rump was healthy, full and round as an apple. Her waist was narrow. Her were legs shapely with elegant knees and carried her across the room with grace. Her brown eyes were a symmetrical almond shape and as soft as a doe. She had even grown four inches.

Her vanity, besides her hair, was her ample breasts. She never lost any weight there. They were round, heavy and would give many children suck, one day. They always remained firm and never required any bra.

When the fat left her face, it left a wide mouth and her lips full that complimented her high round cheekbones perfectly. The minerals in the local water made her teeth straighter and whiter. They shone ivory white against her olive skin when she smiled. Even her laugh had acquired a musical lilt to it.

She took as much pride in her appearance as she did her house. She enjoyed having everything just so, that is why she found George so disconcerting.

No other boy had affected her just this way. Just seeing him awoke her fiery Latin nature. She wanted to bed him. No...she wanted him to bed her! She ached to have that handsome man's huge dick pumping inside her. She wanted him to fuck her to rule her, to command her.

The mansion was nice and cool and there was always much to do. She had given notice today and then that George stopped by, reminding her why she stayed so long. She would tell the Captain of her change of heart in the morning. She sighed as she realized the truth of the matter was she'd work for just a kind word from the handsome, strong, virile George every now and again.

There, that ought to do it. Eighteen pages remained. I closed the book and went to sleep eager to visit the house and see what I had wrought. But I didn't have to wait for evening for a surprise. The next morning was quite enough.

WEEK ONE: MONDAY

It was only until I slipped on my spectacles in order to shave did I notice the changes in me. My acne scars had gone. I was much fitter and my penis, well it was huge. Wrapped in my robe, I flipped open the tome and scanned my work. There it was, in my haste to be literary, I had altered myself.

I had described myself strong and handsome. It was a good thing he book understood figurative language or I might really have a dick as big as a bull's. Still it was hefty thing of ten inches or so. I did not remember having this my whole life. Premise did not seem to be a concern for the book's owner. I assumed was because the book WAS the premise. Or it could be that the user was immune for altered memories. In any case, I wish I had it in my college days. Perhaps a few painful episodes would have turned out differently.

I resolved to be more careful in the future, composing drafts before committing any writing to the book. I closed the book, placed my computer equipment in the back and went off to work.

It was a particularly bad day. Several students were feuding. Two girls had to go to the nurse because a new piercing was inflamed and four boys got into it. I never did find out why. To cap it all, Mr. Punjabi took up my free period railing at me for not protecting his daughter, Fatima, from the boys at the school. The idea that sweet little Fatima needed any watching and I was supposed to do it was ludicrous but he wasn't having any of it. In addition, no faculty members were speaking to me. To this day, I have no idea why. I ate my lunch alone. At least the Irish boys and girls in the car park were rude to my face. I almost forgot to drive to the Carfax Manor.

I took a breath and tried to calm myself as I rung the bell. Carmen answered. She was breathtaking. I had no idea I was such a talented writer. She curtsied and greeted me properly. I looked for the blush that should have been there. And it so it was! I suppose I should call Carmen Fuentes a "published" work. I was about to begin my study in earnest when Beryl ran up and hugged me. She must have been out riding because she smelled of the land.

"Hello Beryl I have a bit of gift for you." I handed her the coins, washed and wrapped in a wooden cigar box I had lying around. "Open it now."

"Christmas isn't for weeks." She scolded me.

"I know, but this can't wait. Let's go to the study for a little privacy." Beryl loved surprises, I knew she wouldn't be able to resist.

"Why George, their old coins! They can't be real can they?"

"I found them in the woods. Should be enough there for a few years at Oxford, I think."

"Oh George!" She gave me a kiss and hugged me so tight I thought I would never breathe again. But then she suddenly stopped, as quickly as flipping a switch. "But I can't, not with the manor in such dire straights."

I took her hands in mine and pleaded with her. "Be reasonable. There isn't enough her to save the mansion but there is enough to save you. Go to Oxford, you deserve it."

"My marks aren't good enough."

That last part was true. Beryl's skills lay more in the social arena. Everyone always said she got all the charm and I got the brains. "Poppycock. There are women there with not half your wit. You'll get in, our relations practically built the place."

For the first time in my memory, Beryl screwed up her face in such a manner that I could see the resemblance she had with Grandfather. "No the family needs it more than me." She put the coins in the open box. "I think a coin collector would be the best place to sell these, how about you? Oh look! Is this a Roman Emperor?"

Leave it to her mistake Philip the Second with Julius Cesar. Well it was hers to do with as she wished. Enrollment was months off. I thought I had until then to change her mind. After a bit of small talk, I asked Beryl if Carmen seemed different somehow. Beryl said. "No, she had been her usual efficient self." Sure enough, the manor was spotless. There was even a Christmas tree with all the trimmings. My head swam on the way to library. Beryl chattered on as I realized that the book altered reality, past as well as present.

Beryl's response had disturbed me. I forced myself to scan the inventory cards. It was remote task, more tedium than real effort. It allowed me to think. I began to really think about what I did to Carmen.

True, I did make her healthier and more beautiful. Few women would curse me for that. But I also, in all likelihood, made her my love slave. I considered just walking away and amending the vellum page. Ink shaved easily off the stuff. I could even just snip it out. But then Beryl would be alone, without help.

I realize now, looking back on it all, that I simply wanted the Spanish beauty that I had created. I had always felt I had gotten less than my fair share of ass at university. I was fit, smart and had good breeding, so why did every relationship end in disaster? My old counselor said it was because I had no faith in people. Fucking idiot.

My asshole roommates got all the fine bits. Now one was mine. I had a girl, a beautiful girl, who wanted me, unconditionally. I didn't have to spend endless time or money on her. I didn't have to talk with her and pretend she wasn't stupid. I could have her, my way. Before I raped her (it was rape, whether she knew it or not) I dehumanized her in my mind. I called her names, relived all her piggish behavior, and then consoled myself that I could fix it all later if I wanted. In the end, I pretended it was just a bit of fun, no more random than cupid's arrow and forgot she had a mother.

After an hour or so, Carmen arrived with a polished silver platter (The silver hadn't been polished in years!) of coffee and home baked cakes. "A bit of refreshment for you, young sir?" She placed the platter down. She kept her eyes downcast, forcing herself not to stare at me. "Cream or sugar?"

"No thank you. I prefer things dark." She turned to leave. I decided to put things to the test. "Carmen. Stay."

"Young sir?"

"The term here is, 'master.' I am Master Carfax." I could see her hands open and close. Her skin visibly flushed and her thighs rubbed against on another. "Can you say that? Master?"

"Master." He breath quickened.

I stood. "Do you mind addressing me so?" I took a step closer.

"No, Master Carfax. It..."

"It..what?"

"It seems fine."

I stroked her arm. Her mouth was slack with lust at this time. Her body was demanding more oxygen than her nose could provide. The increase in oxygen added fuel to her fire. Her eyes never left my hand. "I want to thank you for helping our family. It must be very lonely here for you."

"Si."

"I just want you to know that I appreciate all you have done for us." Her whole body was twisting now. She had not given up all discretion and her thighs rubbed in little circles. I couldn't believe thoroughness of the book.

"I am afraid we are going to have to let you go." She stiffened immediately.

She looked up me like a deer in the headlights of an oncoming car. "No! I told the Lord..."

"I am afraid so. You see we can't afford to keep you."

"My family needs the money."

So there was family involved. I steeled myself. "We don't have it to give."

She took my hands between hers, pleading. "I...I..will stay for almost free. Please. I ...like it here."

"Very well, but it have to be for room and board just until we get back on our feet. Unless there is something else..."

Her eyes grew dark and clever. "One thing Master." She squeezed my hands. "I want to be in your employ, not the old man."

"Well I don't think he will mind that. But then I think it would fall to Beryl to keep you, since she is Lady of the House."

"Yes. I would love Miss Beryl to be my employer. She is very kind to me."

"Fine, then it's settled. You are Beryl's servant for the time being." I moved my hands but she held them closer.

"One more thing" she took a deep breath, the kind designed to draw attention to her chest."...Master. Carmen, she would also like to be your servant." She pulled my hands to her healthy bosom and guided them over her bodice. "Is there anything I can do for you?" her seductive contralto failed and her voice cracked into a pleading whine.

I moved my hands over her braless chest. Even through cotton, her womanly charms were impressive. Her hands lay over mine, pressing me into more intimate detail. She closed her eyes and breathed in gasps, reliving her dreams. She bent her head back, baring her neck to me.

I pressed into her and kissed her neck. It was smooth as cream and tasted citrussy for some reason. My arms slithered down to her rump, I grabbed handfuls and squeezed. She moaned.and ground her crotch into my own. The zipper of my slacks painfully scraped my erect penis through my shorts.

"I give you my heart." She sighed." I will do anything for you."

"Anything?" I kept groping her.

"Yes. Yes. With pleasure."

Now when a woman says she'll do "anything", any red blooded man thinks only one thing." Kneel." Without hesitation, she kneeled. I felt uncomfortable, at first. "You would like to serve me?"

"Heaven help me, that is all I have ever wanted." She stated straight at my crotch.

"You can kiss me there, if you like." She almost knocked me over in her enthusiasm. But once my angry penis stared in the face, she hesitated. I took it as a sign she found the act distasteful. Her revulsion interfered with the quality of her sucking but I was really appreciating the power of the book. I stroked her hair, the hair I created. I pulled her pins loose and reveled in it. It was as silky and wavy as I wrote.

"George?"

Beryl broke me from my reverie. In the dark, blinded by my reading lamps, she had entered unseen. Carmen froze. Fortunately, the library table obscured her from view. "Have you seen Carmen?"

"She just dropped off this lovely coffee and cakes."

"Oh. Well if you see her, tell her she is needed in the kitchen."

"Right." Once Beryl popped out I pulled Carmen away from me. If the book was true, she would secretly love the fact I was calling the shots. "Sorry, love, but you heard my sister. Get to the kitchen."

She did, as ridiculous as it sounds, she did love my tease. "But, por favor...I.."

I yanked her hair. "I said 'get to the kitchen.'"

"Ai! Si..yes."

"Yes, who?"

"Yes, Master Carfax."

"Good. Off you go." I slapped her on her behind and managed to wait until she shut the library door before I did a dance for joy. Then I got back to work, as preoccupied as I was, things proceeded slowly.

The dinner was spaghetti with no meat. It brought me back to reality. We were still poor. Carmen paid special attention to me but it was a Phyrric victory. I dined on ashes. Here was my family, going into ruin and I was playing "lord of the manor" with a maid. I was disgusted with myself. I rushed through the meal, rather than watch my family dwell on our misfortune.

On my drive home, I thought about my elder brother and sister. As far as they were concerned, the family estate could burn to the ground. They were happy in London and their fancy river view flats. As I unloaded the mini I was hit with the reality of all the composition books left upgraded. Their writing was always so poor they required a great deal of attention. I stayed up to midnight and then quit.