Chapter Five

For the next two weeks I waited for Ellington Lloyd to confirm our activities at the Morrow Seafood Grill. The two times I was in his presence, however, no mention was made—not that I expected him to say something in front of other people. I did expect him, at the very least, to give me a wink or the nod of his head. There was none. In all the weeks of our surreptitious game playing, as nervous as I’d become, I was never so nervous as I was waiting for him to acknowledge our relationship.

Then one afternoon, exactly two weeks following the Morrow incident, Ellington came to my cubicle himself.

“Miss Sinclair, we’re going to need to talk. Monday in my office.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I think we have some important matters to discuss.”

“I imagine we do,” I said, fully honoring his comment.

He smiled, rather tentatively. “By the way, you have entered the office pool for the baseball playoffs, haven’t you?”

I’m sure I looked astonished. “No. I don’t know a thing about baseball.”

“You should know something. It’s the national pastime.”

Had I offended him? “I guess for some.”

He was being just like the charming Ellington Lloyd who schmoozed the office crowd and his clients with wit and the twinkle in his eyes. I decided that he was putting me at ease, but I knew right then that my weekend would be a disaster of more tortuous hours of waiting for our Monday meeting.

On Monday morning, I found a memo from Ellington on my desk when I arrived. “I’ve penciled you in at eleven.”

My body raced, memories, physical memories flooding it with sexual excitement. Not that I wasn’t already jittery with anticipation.

At ten, I had an employee review with Preston Lockhart, something I didn’t particularly look forward to, but it would be brief—the man was always brief. Maybe it would take my mind off the meeting an hour later. I’d certainly be no good to work until I’d had my first face-to-face meeting with my master.

The review went exactly as I expected—Lockhart hardly knew what I did. There wasn’t a clear yardstick to evaluate my performance, just the comments of the agents and the others for whom I did research. Apparently, the remarks about my work were favorable and properly recorded in my file. I did my work in a timely way. It was neat, organized and reasoned.

Still, Preston Lockhart always unnerved me. I couldn’t decide if it was the coolly critical formality or his amazing good looks that had me quaking, and just a little bit shivering in the regions of my panties. For all of his self-assurance, however, the vulnerability I felt beneath the surface of his demeanor intrigued me. I didn’t expect to ever get beyond that ripple in his polished veneer, but I would look for cracks, just to keep interested. I was in the process of doing that as our interview ended. He closed my file, sat back in his chair. I was prepared for his ending spiel about the company in the next quarter and his expectations for me, which were probably not much different than they’d been the last quarter.

“Another matter to discuss,” he started, just as I expected.

“Yes?”

He stared me down, like he was climbing under my skin. I squirmed in my seat. “I have sent you emails from time to time; instructions…”

I heard what he was saying, but it wasn’t computing in my brain. I couldn’t remember any specific emails. “Sure,” I answered, only because I had to say something.

“I expect for the most part you’ve done well with our arrangement, but then, the game is hardly started.” The tenor of his voice changed, becoming that intensely deep and sexual baritone that had been haunting me daily, nightly. My breath grew short, as I struggled to believe what I was hearing, to put all the pieces together and acknowledge the facts he was laying out for me. “My question is: Do you have the stomach for more?”

I think I dropped my jaw as a child would, in awe of something ten times its size. The anxiety in my gut made me nauseous. The surprise took not just my breath but my power of speech.

As long as twenty seconds passed. Doesn’t seem like much, but when you watch the clock, each tick of the sweep hand seems an eternity. He was content to wait for me, steepling his fingers in front of his impassive but elegant face. He was my least likely candidate for master, my least favorite. However, even as I believed that this was true, as I stared him down as critically as he was staring at me, I sensed that in time, I’d change my mind.

“Maybe you need to think about it.” His voice cut through me like a scalpel through flesh.

“And how much time would I have?”

“The end of the day.”

“That’s all?”

“You should be able to tell me now without any wait at all. Is there a reason you’re stalling?”
“I just thought…”

“It was someone else?”

“Exactly.”

“So, you’re disappointed.”

“I’m . . . I don’t think so. I just have to adjust.”

“Well, you’ve got thirty seconds to do that,” he said with a terse sigh.

“I thought I had till the end of the day?”

“I’ve changed my mind.”

“But I…” I started and stopped, knowing exactly what I had to say, but being too chicken to spit it out, until the sweep of the second hand on his watch ended my thirty seconds of painful deliberation. The expression on his face became intensely focused on me and I knew my time was up. Maybe he was right to make me answer right then. “Yes, I have to go forward… I can’t even think of stopping,” I finally blurted out with no time left.

“Good.” He penciled something on his desk calendar of which I was instantly suspicious, then he looked back up at me. “You can go now.”

“Now?”
“It’s all I have for you right now. My next appointment is waiting.”

Yes, of course, sure… I think I shook my head, while wondering if I had just dreamed this scene. But everything seemed real, touchable, interacting with all my senses appropriately.

I made my way out of his office, probably not very gracefully, but I’m not sure he noticed. His attention was already concentrated on his next agenda.

A few minutes later, the meeting with Ellington Lloyd was like a walk in the park. He had some projects he was warning me about, and otherwise he joked about trivial stuff—I don’t even remember what he said. My head was somewhere else. I probably didn’t even sound lucid, but Ellington wouldn’t know that.

I spent five days dwelling on Preston Lockhart, discovering that he had an uncanny power over me, even though he was nowhere around. Shortly after our meeting on Monday, he’d taken off for three days in Vermont. I was relieved, although it took me two days, trying to stay clear of him, and not having to, before I realized that he had left the office. I suppose dropping the bomb and letting it quietly detonate in his absence was a reasonable ploy. It certainly worked. Once I learned the identity of my master, my body had no problem adjusting and my fantasies altered to fit the man. My logical mind revolted frequently, but this had never been sensible scheme, not from the start. My insane desires and unruly imagination rejected my perfectly reasoned reservations as so much nonsense. Preston Lockhart was my master.

***

Friday afternoon I was on the street heading toward my bus stop, when a small silver Audi pulled up beside me and the door opened from the inside.

“Get in.” I could hardly see who was inside, but there was no mistaking the voice. Although I’d been unable to recognize it just a week ago, it had been inside my head since that incredible moment in Preston’s office.

We drove in silence for some distance, until my nerves were practically fried and he looked at me, saying, “Lean back and spread your legs.”

I did as I was told, glad for something to do other than that interminable waiting. Instantly, the warm feeling in my body grew from the hot spot at my clit, up and outward.

“No panties?” he asked. He couldn’t see. “Pull back your skirt.”

I obliged him, wiggling my tight skirt up off my hips, probably more than asked for, but by then my fantasies were so heavily engaged, I’m sure I’d have walked naked in public if he ordered me to do so.

“Feet on the dash,” he further directed.

My pussy lurched, one big spasm followed by another. I could hardly keep from touching myself.

He could see my fingers, itching to claw at the aroused wet folds. “If you dare lay a hand on your pussy, I’ll tie your wrists behind you.” His directive stopped any thoughts of masturbation cold.

Okay, I said to myself. Being ever obedient, I pressed my hands on either side of my hips and kept them there, as we rode through a maze of city streets. With my feet on the dash, spread as ordered, a sensuous breeze tickled the folds of my exposed cunt. When the clear, cold eyes of Preston Lockhart occasionally gazed at the lewd sight, my arousal soared another notch higher.

I wiggled some, just to let off a little steam. I even closed my thighs, slightly massaging them together; anything to expand the sexy feeling and maybe get off.

“Tell me what you want from me,” he suddenly demanded.

Why the hell was he asking me that? “How about letting me come?” I threw in because I couldn’t help myself, even though it was probably the wrong thing to say.

I thought I saw him almost laugh, or maybe he was just relaying his amusement telepathically.

“You’ll come when you’re told,” he reminded me.

“Yes, I got that,” I answered back.

When we turned a corner, a beam of sunlight streamed in through the window directly on my pussy. I squirmed more, while pretending that my hands were tied and useless at my sides. I would have given anything to have a mouth fixed on my privates, sucking the gathering juices. But there would be no such luck for me—at least not for now.

Preston stopped the car and parked along a commercial street lined with trendy shops, jewelry stores, books stores and quaint cafés. Though it was a neighborhood for leisurely strolls, sipping cappuccino and quiet chat, I sensed there was a more urgent, more purposeful reason for our being there.

“You can put your feet down and cover your ass,” he spoke before he exited the car. He opened my door for me, and with a hand at the small of my back guiding me, he pushed me from the sidewalk into an alley between two buildings. A moment later, we darted into the first available door on our right, into the back room of a dress shop.

“Take off your clothes,” he told me immediately, his voice crisp. I was all-aflutter.

I looked around at the storeroom, which was filled, warehouse style, with shipping crates and clothes racks. There were several doors, which I imagined opened into the store itself, but they all were closed. We were alone. I quickly figured that this was a far less risky venture than the ones Preston had previously required of me. Following orders with no hesitation this time, I undid a few buttons and shrugged out of my blouse. My body warmed immediately with arousal as the air hit my skin. This thrill in me was something I’d never quite felt before—not quite the same as in my apartment, the 5th Floor Conference Room, or the downstairs basement of Morrow’s Seafood Grill. Only after my skirt was at my feet did I realize that Preston’s impassive but unremitting stare was making me flush with embarrassment, while my sexual desire climbed with unremitting zeal. The feeling was as good as it was frightening. Though it was an easy nakedness compared with my past experiences, I was soon sweating, my tummy all in a bind. Any second I expected that the evidence of my sexual arousal would be seeping from my pussy. If only he’d say something, I thought to myself, but he remained aloof and kept his intentions to himself.

A minute later, one of the far doors opened, and a pleasant looking woman appeared.

“Earlier than I expected you,” she nodded at Preston. She proceeded to review my body with a critical eye, as if I were an assignment, not a person. Being inspected by two pairs of eyes was almost too much for me to take. My legs turned to jelly while my excited crotch throbbed with desire.

“You have something appropriate ready?” Preston interrupted her task.

“Oh, my yes, Preston. You’ll love this.” Her eyes twinkled like those of a merry elf. Humm, I could have dived right inside her lovely aura—not to mention her gently curvaceous body. I supposed that she was about my age, and though she was impeccably dressed, not unlike Cassandra, there was a warmth to her personality that Cassy never had, nor most women like her would never display so effortlessly. For five minutes, her hands worked their magic with me, as she dressed me in the clothes that Preston ordered. Initially, I was a little surprised by the choice, but only for a few moments. When she was finished, she marched me to a mirror on the far side of the storeroom. One look and I realized the subtlety and the sexiness of my new attire.

A soft, brown sleeveless turtleneck sweater covered my torso from my neck to my waist. The style would have been reasonably modest, except that the knitted fabric was see-through under the right circumstances and lighting. My breasts stood out like two round globes, a pair of nipples interrupting the smooth look, jutting from—and sometimes through—the surface like bullets. The fact that I was braless was easily visible. The skirt was brown suede, hugging my hips firmly, while a dangerously deep slit parted the back nearly crotch high. I wouldn’t be able to bend over without showing my pussy.

“The heels?” the woman jumped in asking Preston.

“You have some that match?” he asked.

She smiled, and pulled a pair of dark brown suede pumps from a shoebox, stooping to put them on my feet. They were the perfect fit.

I stared at my reflection in the mirror, while my master and the unnamed woman inspected me again. The entire outfit was accentuated by my pale brown skin, with the effect of making me look a bit like a sensuous brown cat. The way these clothes hugged my rounded curves, my body seemed to climb from them. The blatantly sexual image pleased me, although I was nervous about the obvious exposure of my breasts.

But, it was not my job to worry about being scandalous, immodest or cheap. If the outfit demeaned me in the eyes of the beholder, then it was for me to bear the barbs with grace. I was my master’s slut. That in itself was a freeing thought! Enjoying the power, the freedom to be the woman I wanted to be within this prison of rules and orders, my eyes gleamed back at me filled with the raw hunger of animal lust. Though I’d never looked this way before, I loved the woman I’d become.

After a few moments of careful consideration, Preston finally approved of my attire. “It will work for what I have planned.” And just that fast, he was ready to leave. His mind made up, he leaned toward the woman and kissed her lightly on the cheek—a perfunctory kiss, not an intimate one, but something they might have done for years. It seemed sisterly.

My discarded clothes ended up in a shopping bag, which I carried from the shop. Though we exited from the same door we entered, and moved directly toward the street, I was hardly protected from the eyes of those who passed us as we headed for the car. Most of the people were too busy with themselves to notice me, but one woman in particular and two men couldn’t help but gaze in wonder at my chest, tits bobbing in plain sight, covered by just the sheer brown fabric. In the sunlight, the lurid effect was even more noticeable. My hunger for this new sexual power grew.

Getting gracefully into the sports car proved as difficult as I imagined it would be. There was no way to do so without bending over and exposing my naked ass. But giving me no room to hesitate, Preston determinedly pushed me over as I stooped to crawl in the car headfirst. My only hope was that he was behind me, blocking the unconcealed view of my rear cleft. Either that or I was flashing the world.

I turned back to see where Preston was. He must have seen the flicker of fear in my eyes.

“You’re doing fine, Skye,” he leaned in and whispered in my ear, as several people glanced our way. As I bent over, Preston laid his hand on my ass. “You’re lying if you tell me you’re modest,” he said, giving my ass a squeeze and shoving me into the car.

Of course, he was right.

By that time, my body was so stimulated that I was afraid I would explode. But safely in the car, I had a few minutes to settle again.

“Bound women learn not to flinch at their orders,” he reminded me.

“And I’m a ‘bound woman’?” I asked.

“I would think your agreement with me would make that obvious to you.”

“I suppose it does. I just never thought of it that way.”

“Then, it wouldn’t hurt to start. I consider you owned property. Mine to use, to share and exhibit. If that doesn’t work for you, tell me now.”

Every day, every email, every time he spoke to me, I moved a little deeper into the unknown realm of this man’s quirky fantasies. But now, the transformation was happening at light speed, faster than my ability to keep up.

My bones and blood quaked in recognition of what I heard. The words were powerful—owned, property, use, share, exhibit—echoing torrid accounts on those steamy websites, not to mention my own thoughts, which had wooed me toward this surrender with such undeniable force. I was losing all sense of time and place, the date, the season, and anything that would link me to reality. As I vacated one world, time shifted into some remote place where I was for those hours living a separate life, unsure when and if I would return to my real one. I became another person, different from the woman I knew well. This woman surfacing was now more real to me than the one I’d been for thirty-two years, but like a distant relative, I saw only rarely. She had no morals, no sense of propriety. Before the night was out, I’d see just how little she cared about proper behavior. I loved her—and as importantly, needed her—to get through what Preston planned for me.

It intrigued me that Preston, this man who barely knew me, could recognize the truth inside me. I wanted to question him, understand what he saw that other men did not. But it wasn’t the time. I was notably timid in his presence, cowed by his control over me, which to my perception, seemed to be complete. My mind might have been filled with a thousand competing questions, but my heart and body threw them off, remaining mesmerized, fixated and powerless to do anything but obey him. Force me to obey? I’m not sure he used much force at all… I was a willing collaborator in the game.

From the shop, Preston drove onto the highway, moving directly into the fast lane, pulling along side a diesel trucker on our right hand side.

“Play with yourself,” he ordered.

I hesitated just a second, while staring up at the truck cab, wondering if the driver would look down and see me.

“What? You changing your mind?” he asked.

“No, sir.”

“Then don’t look up, just play.” Preston wasn’t happy.

I took his comment as a rebuke, and sliding a little deeper into thoughtless obedience, I did as I was told. Spreading my legs the way I’d done on the way to the dress shop, my skirt rode up nearly to my waist, leaving my pussy exposed to the eyes of anyone who might look down from above. I couldn’t tell whether the trucker beside me was looking or not, but I imagined that he was. The possibility was enough to give me goosebumps, enough to set my crotch on fire. Flicking my fingers against my clit, it took just seconds to bring the wild arousal to a razor-sharp edge. I wanted to come then. Forget the fingers, forget subtlety, both hands flew to my snatch, groping and mauling, pinching, squeezing and rubbing against my clit. My head flew back against the headrest as I moaned for real—this wasn’t fiction, this was real, gut-wrenching, primeval, uncontrollable sensation. While my hips churned, pumping against my hands, my head and chest tossed back and forth. My breasts tore against the generous armholes of the see-through sweater, with my tawny flesh stretching the material. Any second, my whole tit, nipple and all, might break through.

“Gawd, you’ve got to let me come!” I shouted to the man beside me.

“I don’t have to let you do anything!” he growled ominously at me.

My sex juice poured out on my hands as I quickly moved dangerously close to the point where I couldn’t have stopped my orgasm merely through sheer will power. I tried again, “Oh, please!”

“When I say so, Skye,” he held the climax off with his intimidating voice.

I realized then that we were exiting the freeway to a rest stop, with the Audi coming to a stop at the far end of the trucker area. The momentary pause concerned me, but not enough to stop the climax from urgently demanding its expression. Pulling into the parking lot beside us was the trucker, who had apparently seen the whole show. He was given an even better view of the finish, when after jumping from his cab to the asphalt, he opened the car door. He was an old guy—probably fifty, with a wiry, gritty body and a craggy timeworn face. In reality, it was a handsome face, beautiful for the clear blue eyes, if nothing else. Though he didn’t lay a finger on me, it was those eyes—the sex sparked eyes of a twenty-year-old—that made my body lurch forward and a huge, grinding spasm suddenly shake me end to end.

I’m not sure how much noise I made, but I know I wasn’t holding much in. I must have writhed against the car seat for nearly five minutes, going from one sexual peak to the next as the spasms skyrocketed through me. I’d think it was over, and my fingers would make me jolt again, then squeezing or pulling or rubbing myself to another climax. As the feelings lessened, I returned to the land of the living, panting heavily but feeling more alive than I had in some time. Both of my breasts were bare by the time my ass finally rested on the seat, having worked through the armholes of the sweater, nipples erect like tiny volcanoes. I opened my eyes and gazed quickly at the trucker, who stood next to the car, grinning at me in a most lurid way.

“She for hire?” he asked Preston.

“Not yet,” he said. “But I thank you for taking the time to watch. You don’t know how important that is for her.”

“My pleasure,” the man answered. He closed the door, since it was obvious that a good peepshow was all he would get. Preston gunned the car and we sped off. I like to think the trucker returned to his cab and jacked-off thinking me. Maybe he’s still jacking off with the image of me in mind.

“Not for hire, not yet?” I just couldn’t let this one go.

“So, what’s your question?” Preston asked, as if he had no clue what I was asking.
“Are you turning me into a whore?”

“Would that bother you?”

“Yes, I think it would.”

“But you’ll do as you’re told.” Another reminder.

“I’m not sure. Maybe I do have limits.”

“And so do I. Perhaps you need to trust that I know what yours are.”

I liked the way he said that. Although he really didn’t answer my question at all, I could live with the answer. Besides, my complicity in this sexy scheme was still my choice. I could back out anytime. He kept telling me that if I didn’t want what he expected of me, the game was over.

So, he had his game plan, and I had mine. I’d entertain myself—and what great entertainment it was—until he stepped over the line. My logic was sound. I was sure of my safety. This seemed as responsible to me as any old-fashioned courtship and a heck of a lot more fun.

Unfortunately, my careful reasoning was based on assumptions that I was unaware of and a future I could not predict. I’d find soon that my ‘logical’ assessment of Preston Lockhart and his game turned out to be dangerously flawed. I’m not sure that I could have done enough research to predict that.

Sometimes now, I suspect that my easy acquiescence had nothing to do with being ‘reasonable’ at all. The thrill of those days didn’t end with the amazing things Preston had me do—which were enough inspiration by themselves to keep my sex life happy for years. These early days I spent under Preston’s rule were accompanied by a growing infatuation with the man, and my eagerness to please was fired by the hopes that secretly burned in my heart. It was as simple as a schoolgirl crush to start. My hormones flying, my dreams of handsome suitors fulfilled—the reality was so rich, something so unlikely for a girl like me that I needed to keep it going. I couldn’t let him go, nor that bigger fantasy of romance, which danced and teased me from afar, taunting me through my surrender.

Preston drove me home after our escapade on the freeway. I honestly expected something more, sure that trucker was simply there as an appetizer for a bigger meal. Fact was, I’d had enough after my grandiose show of sexual climax. That night I rested in my own bed, dreaming, masturbating three more times . . . Yes! I know it was against the rules, but I had to, as the look on the trucker’s face mutated each time into the face of Preston Lockhart. He had me hooked.