The Force of Circumstance

By Polecat

A very dark, erotic tragedy.
A young engineer arriving at his new work place in the jungles of Thailand needs a maid so, to his surprise, he buys one: Lana.
Lana comes with a secret that she dares not reveal. When his fiancee moves in, jealousy and rivalry propel the story to its inevitable, tragic, and surprising ending.
A Palimpsest on Somerset Maugham's short story, this one is told from the male point of view.
Not for the easily offended or thin skinned.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Polecat
• Release date: Oct 30, 2013
• ISBN: 9781311364920

Polecat

I've been a fan of erotic literature in general and BDSM in particular for years. After a while, I found out that no one seemed to write stories the way I wanted to read them so I began to write my own.I like consensual BDSM, written usually but not always from the submissive's point of view. Rarely I write lighter fare as in "Yasmin"Check out my blog at: http://polecatsmusings.blogspot.com/

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THE FORCE OF CIRCUMSTANCE

A Palimpsest on Somerset Maugham’s story

by

Polecat

Copyright © Polecat.2013. Smashwords Edition

All characters and events in this story are imaginary and any resemblance with actual people or events is pure coincidence.

THE FORCE OF CIRCUMSTANCE

Chapter 1 - The Rains

If the rainy season is not the best time to arrive at any place near the equator, to arrive at Ban Dung during the height of the rains is the epitome of insanity. In the middle of a colossal downpour, a battered Land Rover made its way, through the liquid mud of the road until it sputtered to a halt in front of the house. The driver and passenger got out of the car and unloaded the passenger’s luggage. The two suitcases and briefcase posed no problems but the cardboard box had absorbed all the humidity in the air during the long trip from Bangkok and now, under assault from the torrential rain, it threatened to end its existence right there, on the footsteps of its destination. Between both men however they managed to carry it into the house before its walls dissolved into pulp, spilling its contents inside the house rather than on the mud outside. The Land Rover sloshed its way back while the passenger picked up the contents of the box, mostly liquor and kitchen utensils, depositing them on the nearest table.

The passenger, a man in his late thirties or early forties took stock of his surroundings. Like many of the houses in this part of the country, it consisted of a square platform, on short stilts that kept it raised above the ground, or mud in this case. Its roof, he was happy to note, was thatched palm fronds which absorbed the noise of the rain, rather than aluminum sheets that would magnify it into an artillery barrage. Under the roof, a wide veranda surrounded the rooms, which opened out on it rather than into an inner corridor. There were two bedrooms, a living room or office, judging by the bookcases that lined its two solid walls, and a dining room. The small bathroom, tucked away between the bedrooms contained a lavatory, sink, and cold water shower stall. A refrigerator sat by the bathroom with a large freezer beside it. Several bottles of mineral water and Singha beer had been thoughtfully left inside for him. Cooking, as was usual in Thailand, was done outside, under an aluminum roofed shed in the patio. He looked at the charcoal stove in the shed and groaned.

I need a maid’ he thought.

Even though the temperature was warm, even hot, he shivered in his soaked clothes. He took both suitcases into one of the rooms, and changed into dry shorts and a white T-shirt. He took a bottle of scotch, found a glass inside one of the cabinets in the living room and ice in the refrigerator. Before he poured the scotch, he picked a beer, opened it and drained it in two or three gulps. He exhaled with pleasure and then belched loudly, twice. Pouring a rather large shot of liquor, he sat in the living room, watching the rain.

This is why they do the interviews in the dry season he mused aloud.

He woke up, startled by the silence. The rain had stopped. It was daylight. He slipped out from under the mosquito net and groaned. His head hurt. He needed coffee. Unfortunately, the one thing he could not find was a coffee maker. He opened all the cabinets in the living room where the half empty bottle of Johnnie Walker explained his headache, and found a kettle, blackened by soot, and a tea pot, but no coffee maker. He groaned again. Two aspirins and a shower later, still bleary eyed, he made his way outside.