Chapter Twelve

Shortly after my punishment in the half-built house, Preston moved my desk out of research into an office adjoining his. I became his personal assistant and they hired a new girl for my research position. This new job assignment shocked me, since I never had any aspirations for working outside of my perfectly comfortable, anonymous niche. All this was done without my being consulted. And yet, by that time, I was letting things happen to me, rather than making them happen.

This was obviously a behavior new for me. I mindlessly gave up any thought of free will, unable to shake the indisputable hold my master had on my behavior and my thoughts. This all seemed perfectly rational, not at all silly, or insane.

The new working arrangement brought me to his side hourly, not daily, as I assisted him in a hundred tasks, none of which allowed me the freedom of my research position. Within days, I became fully entangled in his issues, his job, his intentions for the agency, knowing his schedule by heart and doing everything I was told in order to make his day go smoothly.

While we were working, he rarely made mention of our private relationship, and yet it hung at the periphery like a ghost, hauntingly intruding in the tone of his voice, the brush of his hand against my body and the way he dominated every minute with his needs. I stopped short of asking permission to go to the bathroom, but otherwise I was his to use, order, command and instruct.

Although our private world was rarely acknowledged during our hours in the office, it still had an uncanny way of coloring every moment with sexual tension enough to make my belly quake with lust, my pussy wet in anticipation, and my heart leap with the joy of a woman in love. The fact that we were so physically close so often sometimes drove me crazy… and I found myself wanting to flee from him, go back to the safety of my cubicle and hibernate. After a day or two of little but his cool detachment, a territorial hand deliberately grazing my ass cheek had orgasmic powers.

He’d ignore me for days and I’d start to wonder what happened to our personal relationship. Then, suddenly, in the midst of preparing some report, some letter, or compiling facts, figures, whatever the task, he’d say, “Come here.” My body would instantly tremble and I’d move to his side. “Put your hands on the desk.” I’d do as he asked, which meant I would be posed in a right angle to his desk with my ass stuck out. Preston would lift my very short skirt and fool in some intimate way with my genitals, always with a degree of pain, which required me to contain a reckless flood of sexual energy. Sometimes, I orgasmed, if he allowed me to, sometimes not. He commonly ended the brief scenes, giving me a quick spank on the behind, while sending me on my way as if I were a child.

This wasn’t unlike the many times before, when masturbating in the office was a regular event I surrendered to. However, those occasions were distinctive intrusions in my otherwise busy schedule at the research desk, apt reminders of my role as his submissive. Once my job changed, I needed no occasional reminder of my status. The shift in proximity alone was enough to reminded me of his ownership every minute of my day.

One afternoon, I was crazed with pent-up sexual energy to the point that my raw nerves made me edgy and short. I screwed up a letter, failed to make an important appointment for him, and stumbled through a presentation of information before a small meeting of the associates.

“It doesn’t sound like you prepared for this, Skye,” he quipped at me curtly, when I was unable to answer several questions, and got confused by a question from Ellington Lloyd. “If you’ll excuse us, gentlemen, I think we’d better send Skye back to the drawing board on this one.” Men in their position didn’t like wasting time, and even the normally congenial Ellington left with a less than cordial glance at me.

“I’ll need the information by tomorrow,” he reminded Preston, his voice tinged with a frosty edge as he left the office.

“She’ll have it.”

“I’m sure she will,” his stare was telling. I suppose he remembered the time he found me getting punished in Preston’s office.

Seconds after the last agent left, Preston put me on the floor.

“You want to tell me what caused this sudden lapse?”

“I don’t know, sir,” I answered, my speech sounding muffled and distant. I was in a full crouch bent over with my face in the carpet so far that I was practically eating the dusty nap.

With a sharp movement he flipped my skirt up, exposing my naked buttocks. With a whippy little baton in his fist, he whapped my bottom several dozen times.

“Bad answer, Skye.”

“I wish I had a better one.”

Preston didn’t take the comment as I meant it: sincerely.

He thwacked me hard, with that thin bamboo cutting deeply into my behind. I jumped each time the cane hit, and buried my exclamations in the thick pile at my mouth.

“Try again,” he sternly asked.

“I… uh…” The fact was, Preston hadn’t come to my apartment for sex in almost a week. He hadn’t teased me to orgasm in all that time—in fact, he’d teased me twice and left me hanging. It had been all I could do to keep from breaking his first rule of submission … don’t come without permission. But dare I tell him all that?

He thwacked me again, and kept on cutting me with the dreadful bamboo, while coaxing, “An answer, Skye.”

“I… uh…” I was trying to think while the pain in my ass was reaching miserable proportions. “Ouch… uh… sir… I am so damned horny…”

“So damned horny, what?” he finally stopped hitting me.

“I can’t stand myself… you’ve got my nerves, m-my body all tied in knots, sir…”

“So this is my fault?”

“NO, Sir! I mean… I don’t do well with denial… I’m not very good at long term suffering.”

“Well, then, maybe you need a little more training in suffering. How about two weeks at the North Street house?”

I winced in anguish at that thought.

“It will be a sacrifice on my part, but if they can train you to contain yourself with some grace instead of going sideways on me, it would be worth it.”

“Please, sir, I really don’t think that would be necessary.”

“Oh, you’re making the decisions?”

“NO, sir!”

He paced the room, walking around me, no doubt deep in thought, or being silent just to make me suffer more. The sum of his thoughts was more gruesome a result than I could imagine. “Raise your ass and spread your knees wide.”

The position exposed my pubic mound and anal cleft to the extremes, leaving me vulnerable and especially scared. Preston, for his part, lived up to the promise inherent in his last order. With a delivery sure to shock every tattered nerve in my system, he whacked my ass, the cleft, my labia, pussy and every other tender inch of my sex. I gasped aloud because I couldn’t help it. Of all the trials I’d been through with him, this seemed like the worst. Or then, maybe the present moment is always the worst… because time makes the memories of previous punishment fade or turn into an exhilarating, if not faulty, memory. Truth is always very subjective, but worse or not, I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs, but I didn’t.

When he finally stopped hitting me, the awful ache lingered on.

“You’re going to feel this for sometime, Skye. My intention. I hope it will be a useful reminder. Now get up and fix this lousy presentation into something I can present to Ellington. If you have to work all night to get it done, so be it.”

“Yes, sir,” I said as I gingerly rose to my feet. I was a little wobbly, and yes, I winced with every move.

Later in the company bathroom, I wrenched and twisted my body around until I managed to get a quick peek at my wounds, discovering a dozen red welts where the baton had almost broken the skin and there were bruises rising up from underneath. It was three days before the ache in my behind finally disappeared. The old admonishment, you’ll be blistered so hard you won’t sit for a week… is an extreme threat. That much punishment would be genuinely vile. But it certainly seemed that I was half way there that day.

I waited another week before I got any relief. Preston wasn’t about to let me win this battle. That week was rough, but I did much better containing my nervous frustration. I didn’t even hate him. I never understood how this strange, fantastic dynamic we shared turned abuse into a powerful aphrodisiac. But by then, I quit trying to figure it out.

For awhile, after the incident of punishment in his office, Preston came to my apartment regularly at night—although on no particular schedule. As he’d been doing for months already, scenes in bedroom were often urgent quickies, during which I often wouldn’t get off. Increasingly, however, they became more purely intimate moments when I would mellow out in the pleasure Preston offered with a genuine interest in my satisfaction. Then, almost without my realizing, his sexual focus moved from my taking ass to my cunt… from voyeuring my masturbations, to tender, sensuous trysts, making love.

He became more than a master… exchanging cruelty for breathtaking kisses. His skin met mine explosively, and we fucked wildly, with savage abandon. Then later it was obvious to me that we were lovers, wandering about the bed in the dark, silently speaking with our hands, our tongues and tentative gestures of love. I say tentative because we seemed so unsure of the territory we explored.

Sometimes I wanted to push him away because the intimacy created such an awkward tension between us. I think he felt that way, too—sometimes it was days before he came to me again. Yet, when he finally returned, the passion would be as fresh as it had been that first time.

After one very intimate lovemaking, after a lengthy silence, which was common during our late night rendezvous—I can remember our not exchanging more than four words on one occasion—Preston was getting dressed while I sat on the bed contently naked, watching him. He stared back at me and startled me with a surprising announcement, “I want to move you into the spare room in my apartment.” More surprisingly, I hardly flinched when he made his declaration. “It’s a small space, but all you’ll need. My demands on you increase from this point on and I want you readily available.”

Though I’d lost the independence of my lonely Lloyd & Lockhart cubicle, I still had my apartment to cling to. Now I’d lose this too, if he had his way. My repertoire of ready responses rushed forward as my first defensive thought silently screamed that I cut him off right there. Game over! You’ve gone too far! But that was the old Skye.

My move into his executive penthouse went so smoothly that I hardly knew what happened to me—or most of my belongings; I had little say about what traveled with me to my new home or how it was situated. When I finally arrived the servant’s quarters off the kitchen, I found my bed, my Peruvian comforter, my art scattered about the floor and walls, a dresser, the lively colors I was accustomed to and my clothes stuffed into the small closet. My overstuffed reading chair and lamp were squeezed into one corner, while a washstand and toilet were in the opposite corner behind an Oriental screen. The scene was as wild and eclectic as what I would have designed on my own, which suggested that Preston apparently approved of, or at least respected my personal tastes—as long as they were confined to my room.

The rest of Preston’s penthouse was decorated in subtle tones of tan, and brown and silver, with an occasional splash of deep red, gold or blue. There was no subtlety in the contrasts between us, not in our taste in decorating, nor in our style of emotional expression, nor in our personal temperaments.

Although I took the change with little fuss, once I finally got settled in Preston’s servant’s quarters, a slow invading panic began eroding what peace I’d once had regarding my relationship with my master. It started quietly the day I moved in, as I became not just his live-in mistress, but his personal maid.

The idea of fixing his breakfast, his clothes, his coffee and arranging her personal; schedule probably rattled me more than any of his sexual demands. I didn’t clean the apartment or cook—he had a real maid for that. But I did the things a wife would do and that scared me. More than scared me—terrified me. They brought me closer to his side, closer into his private space, and to vulnerability, his weaknesses, his fears. My panic grew.

I woke up one morning in a cold sweat. Reality was biting my ass—welts from a confrontation with his leather belt laid on my behind the night before, when Preston decided to abuse it; I suppose because he hadn’t in some time and we were both due. It was more than my ass that hurt, however; my eyes and body ached seeing my things around me in my single room, realizing what my life had been reduced to.

I put on my bathrobe; it was Saturday and Preston should be at home. I expected he’d still be sleeping at eight o’clock, but I found him in his study, dressed for the day as impeccably as he was when he came to work—just a little more casually in tan slacks and a lightweight black sweater.

“What is it?” he asked looking up at me.

“I need to talk with you.”

“Yes?” He stared at me as coldly as he had the first time I met him. My legs were trembling, and my hands so sweaty that I couldn’t even rub them dry on my robe. Worse yet, everything I wanted to tell him suddenly vanished from my mind as if someone, or some thing, had tiptoed in and tiptoed out, taking my thoughts with them.

“I… uh…” I shook my head. “Nothing.”

“No?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, then you can get started helping me get ready for the party tonight.”

“What party?”

“Oh, I suppose I didn’t mention it to you.”

This was surprising, since I thought I knew about everything going on his life.

“Just a small intimate gathering… a few friends I’m sure you haven’t met.”

I had no idea what I faced, but I was sure I wouldn’t like it.

The very worst thing about his little soirée was that I never did remember what I failed to tell him—what had been vanished by that little mind thief. My disquiet got shuffled aside and after a time left me in peace, while I busied myself making his apartment perfect and his canapés delicious.

By the time his soiree started, I had completely forgotten that I’d awakened in a panic. I suppose that mortal terror had been too nebulous and difficult to comprehend. It was soon destined to be replaced by real panic based on things I had a right to fear.

“Thank you for getting this done.” It was ten to eight. I was disheveled and sweaty from cleaning, because the housemaid hadn’t shown that day. “You can take the evening off and rest.”

“Rest?” I’d expected him to order me into the shower so that I’d be presentable to his guests.

“Yes, rest.”

“I thought…”

“Thought what? That you’d be attending?”

“Maybe, yeah.”

He smiled like a condescending parent.

“But the party isn’t for you, Skye. It’s private.”

Oh, hadn’t he punctuated that nicely?

“You have the evening off, which you surely need. Besides, you look like a wreck. I’m not sure there would be enough time to make you presentable for my guests. Now run along.”

At this point I’d been there almost two months. Most of the time, it had been just the two of us, but I knew there were a few nights when he entertained other women. I heard them come in late, the giggling girlfriend muffling her presence in the bedroom, while Preston spent two minutes taking care of me—sort of like putting the pet to bed for the night. I stuffed away my concerns, hid my internal protests—he’d made himself perfectly clear on the issue of other women that day at the housing development; I wouldn’t make a fool of myself again. But this time the fact of my submission hit me in the face like a giant 2x4, right between the eyes. It then moved on to hit me squarely in the gut.

I managed to keep my poise long enough to say, “Thanks.”

I went to my room like the dutiful slave girl I was, but I didn’t close the door. I couldn’t. Green with envy for everyone who walked into the sparkling clean room, into that warmly glowing atmosphere of sexual seduction, into the music, incense, lighting, the smell of wine and rich hors d’oeuvres. I couldn’t shut myself off. I forced myself to listen, and allowed my gut to wrench as I heard the sounds of laughter and levity, and later, the sighs and groans of intimate foreplay. I heard the sharp snap of leather on skin and wished it were my flesh taking the beating. I craned my neck, listening for Preston specifically, although I never quite identified him in particular. Minutes ticked by, and then an hour or two, I listened with a longing that finally led me to disobey, and I crept from of my room and down the hallway, where I watched from an alcove in the kitchen, hopefully undetected.

Then I was suddenly jolted by the unthinkable, “Skye!” Preston’s voice rang with that commanding, icy tone of reprimand that he had so thoroughly mastered, the very one that made my whole body shudder and my pussy wet.

I didn’t move.

“Skye, out here now! I know you’re there.”

I was dressed in pajama pants and a man’s old tee shirt, my breasts tenting the stretchy fabric. I could even feel my nipples grow taut from arousal, looking like two perky headlights at the tips of my ample breasts. I padded into the room trying to look guiltless.

“What were you doing there?”

I shrugged.

“Answer me.” He lounged on the sofa. A woman I didn’t know was draped on his one side. His legs were crossed, ankle on knee in a casual pose I’d never seen. Even so, he was very masterly, very stern. I even liked that, but all those other unfamiliar eyes made me hate every miserable sweaty second of the interrogation. “Didn’t I tell you to stay in your room?”

“Hmm, not exactly.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not.”

“Not what?” He looked at me incredulously. I had no idea what was behind that, until it dawned on me that he expected the same language from me now that I used in private with him.

“I’m not lying, sir. At least that is how I understood my instructions. You never mentioned that I had to stay in my room. I came out to get a Coke.”

“If you really believe that line, Skye, then you’re more stupid that I thought you were.”

“You’re calling my stupid?”

“I’m calling it how I see it.”

“Well, to hell with you, Preston Lockhart.”

I guess I was wound too tightly; too pent-up. Regardless of whether I was some man’s submissive or not, after several months worth of holding back—and my angry jealousy—the nasty little piece of me that needed to spit and fuss a bit just burst out in one split second.

“To hell with me?” he repeated, amused—and I think just a little drunk.

“Yeah… that’s right.”

“Well, exactly what is it you want from me? I’ve asked you that before, and you couldn’t answer.” Yes, the question was familiar, but I couldn’t remember why… nor could I even recall the first time he asked it… “Maybe you know now.”

My whole body was hot, my face beating with shame. I wanted out of the room, but I couldn’t figure how that would happen. I finally shrugged again, flippantly. “I’m a novice in your game, Preston. And I probably want too much. I’ve been thinking that I could be your submissive, and also be the woman in your life.” I looked around nervously at the women on either side of him. I almost lost my train of thought; I was almost crying. But then, the last of my speech wasn’t about to go unsaid. “I guess I didn’t read the contract clearly,” I blurted out sarcastically, “not that it was ever stated in so many words, or there was anything for me to sign. So, you’ve made a fool of me. I’m sure I deserved it, but damn it,” I took a deep breath, “I’m in love with you!”

With hot tears stinging my eyes, I was too embarrassed to stay and wait for his answer. I took off, not looking back.

Though Preston called me, I refused to stop.

“Skye!” he said it so sharply that I did hesitate at the door of my room.

To my shock, he’d bolted from his lounging position—having a whole helluva lot more energy that I’d thought he’d have so late in the evening—and was at my door in seconds, taking me by the arm, hauling me back to the living room where his friends waited with great interest. He plopped back down on the sofa next to the pretty, pert girl with ice blonde hair and a droopy languid smile. All the while he stared at me as if to say, “Don’t you dare move a muscle.” I wasn’t going to whether he said it or not.

“Letha, you know the paddle in the cupboard? Go get it for me.” Letha was not the blonde, but turned out to be the woman slouching in the easy chair to his right. The thick, attractive, big-mouthed brunette was more than happy to oblige my master, and moved with some unexpected grace, and certainly enthusiasm to retrieve the requested item. She returned with a hefty wooden punishment paddle that had been drilled with holes. It was at least eighteen inches from handle to the far edge of the business end—a horrible sight to my wide-shocked eyes.

He reached for me, before I could back off, and pulled me over his lap. His physical strength was compellingly evident. All the muscles in his body seemed to converge on me, to hold me in place inside the powerful grasp of his arm. Preston tore at my pajama bottoms until they were dangling at my feet, then he swiftly paddled my behind to a garishly purple hue, with bruises rising underneath the scalded skin. Each smack was dreadful, as the plump rounds of my ass took an awful beating. Though I wanted to cry, I tried vainly to hold back my anguish because I thought I should. To stoically keep the pain inside almost hurt me more than the sting of the wood; and that wood was a dreadful master of my emotions. It finally prevented any attempt I could make to control myself. Before Preston finished I became a wriggling, jerking, frantic, snapping, crying bitch. Although I have no idea what I said—I’m sure it was awful—Preston never threw it back at me, which has always surprised me. Maybe some things you just have to let go.

After he finished blistering my ass, he put the paddle down and worked his fingers in between my thighs, playing with my genitals. It wasn’t sixty seconds and I was coming—with his blessing. But the bigger blessing was more a curse—the raw humiliation of being revealed for what I was in such a public display. I guess there had been many other such circumstances during the course of the game that revealed my true self, but none were quite so textbook as this one for shaming me and leaving me stripped of any self-respect.

“Now, Skye, apologize to my guests.”

He pushed me to my feet. I was a bit lightheaded and not particularly lucid, but I managed to utter something like, “I’m sorry I ever started this. It was pretty stupid. I hope I haven’t ruined your night.”

“Okay, now, get to your room, Skye. Close the door and see if you can behave yourself until morning. You’ll do the rest of your explaining then.”

In a more favorable recollection of the night, I believed that Preston and I gave his audience a good show. Where else would anyone see such a display of power, humiliation and good old-fashioned corporal punishment? I met all the people at that party some time later at various occasions. If could poke fun at myself over the incident that endeared me to most of that crowd.

I didn’t know until the next morning that our clash the night before would be another turning point in our relationship. Whether he would have chosen that time to deliver his next amazing message, I’ll never know, but in retrospect, I was almost grateful for that horrible night for what happened the morning after.

I was standing before him, humbled, while he was sitting on the sofa in roughly the same position he’d been the night before, though at the moment, drinking his morning coffee. He had that impeccable stern look on his face that made be ready for a wintry blast and remind me of the terrific ache in my behind. My biggest worry was that he’d whale on me again, just to emphasize his point—or even worse, order me out of his life forever.

“Come here, Skye.” As soon as he drew me closer, I felt my body flood with relief. “Sit down.” He patted the sofa beside him, placing me in a position I’d rarely enjoyed with him and it made me nervous. He was leveling the playing field and I wasn’t used to it. “You raised a point last night I need to speak to…”

“Oh?”

“I’m going to say this once because I’m not the kind of man who gushes affection. What I feel deeply, I keep to myself, but in this case you need to know the facts. Don’t expect me to repeat them often, so listen carefully.” The unusual situation was already enough to scare me, but this surprising candor only made me frantic.

“Preston, please, I’m so sorry about last night.”

“Yes, I know you are,” he said trying to calm me, “but now I need for you to shut up and listen.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Make no mistake, Skye, you are the one woman in my life. I may toy with others and tease you with them, but they are meaningless trifles. Remember that and it should ease your anxiety.” Already the feeling of relief made me smile with happiness. “It has never been my intention to own a harem of slaves… I just want one perfect one, and that is you. We may be dissimilar in many ways, but in one respect we could be perfect clones.”

My smile vanished. “Clones?” That seemed to be stretching things. I was very curious about how he figured that.

“We make spaces between ourselves, put on this grand show of exhibition, of master and submissive, in part because we like the game itself. But that’s only half the reason. We’re alike because we’re comfortable with our emptiness. Playing our games keeps us from getting too close, from stirring up things we want to hide. You see it in me; I see it in you.”

Yes, of course, it was that vulnerability, his frailty, getting addressed in simple language. What a relief was my first thought, that he even knew it was there. On second thought, though, I realized what he was saying about me, and I wasn’t particularly comfortable with his assessment. He saw the question in my eyes.

“You think you can hide yourself from me?”

I blushed a bit. “I suppose I can’t.”

“We’re going to keep things simple between us. My rules, the requirements hold fast, I’ll enforce my will on you with every bit of zeal I can. There’s no end to the things I want to do to you, the situations I will put you in. Some are unapologetically sadistic, others more kind. You will hate me often. But you’ll live with it, and get the pleasure too. But just to be sure you understand the other side of me… I’m not asking strict obedience from you only to seek other pleasures from other women. You’re the only one I expect to ever need. If I take another woman, it’s only to remind you of the game we play, to keep it fresh and your anxious body titillated. I want you aroused above anything else, because it keeps me aroused—just like it was last night. That is my fascination. But even so, you’re the only woman I need.” He stopped, like he was waiting for his speech to sink in.

I thought a minute, “Let me get this straight… are you telling me you… you love me?”“Yes. I suppose I am.”

“I do love you,” I restated what I’d said the night before, just in case he hadn’t remembered.

“Yes, I know. You’ve said so in your own very direct way.”

I smiled a little bashfully.

“I think you’re beautiful, Skye; sexy, smart, efficient, feisty and full of spirit. You’re a damned good submissive, you usually follow orders well, and I know you’re malleable, even when you’re pissed off. I like that, because even when you’re failing me, which isn’t very often, you’re working at making this relationship work. I know you’re happy with the distance I maintain between us, as happy with it as I am. Even so, you need me to say these things, so here they are in plain English.” He paused. “Anything else you need to know?” I was too dumbfounded to know what to say after that. Here I had an open window, and all I could do was close it softly. I shook my head, “You really stumped me here.”

“Good,” he smiled. “Like to keep you on your toes. And next time we make love, don’t hold anything back.”

“I’ve been holding back?”

“You think about it, Skye.”

I thought about his accusation for some days after he made it… after we’d been in bed together several times and my sexual world suddenly exploded like New Year’s Eve in Times Square. Apparently, I wasn’t holding back anymore. We kissed, we hugged, we held each other tightly, and made love with a directness that put me in awe. I think he was in awe too because we hardly talked about it afterwards.

Preston shattered a few myths about who I am, having held a mirror to my face. He made me look at myself, just so we could both be honest. He didn’t have to force me to obey him, the way my advertisement once suggested. I’d do anything he asked. But he had forced me to surrender everything… even the things I wanted to keep for myself.

***

Some time later….

It was the end of the day. I was dead tired. My cruel taskmaster had had me running since seven thirty that morning, and I wanted to go home to my little cell of a bedroom and crash.

Of course, Preston was aware of my state of being, which I suppose was why he decided to turn things on me so abruptly.

We arrived at the busy beer bar in the middle of the early evening crowd. I was unfamiliar with the place, a rustic roadside establishment with generic chairs and tables, old license plates along the walls, and faded movie posters that had been there decades. It appealed to truckers, bikers, blue collar studs, and even Preston’s working crowd of executives who wanted a little anonymity as they waited for a different kind of evening to begin. No one cared what you looked like or who you were with. It was smoky, noisy and crowded at seven o’clock. On a Friday night, it would stay that way until two a.m. when the bar closed.

We sat across from each other in a tiny booth on the sidelines, drinking margaritas and eating chips. A half dozen strangers to me, but friends of Preston ambled over to pay their respects, some striking up conversations that left me lost, a few others, just gesticulating the ways guys do to say, hello, and then moving on.

I suppose it had been some weeks since I’d been ordered to do anything outrageous—which made we wonder if Preston had run out of ideas, or just the energy to see them through. To his credit, he routinely sent me some provocative email with specific instructions. For one entire day, I worked in the office nude. Of course, since my office adjoined his, and could only be accessed through his, he created a barrier enough to keep my position from being compromised. It was an unbelievable experience—another love/hate relationship with my lust.

Still, it had been weeks since anything so stimulating had been required of me.

Even in the bar, there was no suggestion that he had something in mind for the night, until he insisted on following me to the ladies room.

At the restroom door, he steered me toward the men’s room, saying, “You can use this one.” I was instantly alarmed but did what I was told. Inside the men’s room, there were several vacant stalls in addition to the urinals. He shoved me into one of those stalls, which I quickly used. “Now remove your clothes,” he ordered as I finished peeing.

Forgetting myself, I almost questioned him… but luckily, I remembered myself before I committed the heinous act of balking. It was summer again. I was wearing a short skirt, no panties, a pair of high-heeled sandals and a tightly fitting tee shirt. At work, I’d worn a jacket, but was told to remove it when we entered the bar. I was used to being the focus of sexual attention—and in this place I was hardly the only woman showing off a pair of voluptuous tits. Point was, it took just seconds to shrug off my clothes and show myself naked for Preston’s rather steamy gaze.

“Your deeper exhibitionist passions feeling neglected?” How did he know? I hadn’t uttered word. “You can get your full measure tonight.”

He proceeded to bind my wrists together with rope and throw the free end over the top of the stall, tying it off tight so it wouldn’t come loose. I wouldn’t be going anywhere for sometime. Then, just to make the scene a little nastier, he took a dark lipstick out of my purse and wrote on my back…

Take me!

Use me!

Fuck my ass!

He whispered the words in my ear as he wrote them, making me believe that Fuck my ass! appeared just above my ass cheeks.

“Enjoy yourself, slut,” he said, brusquely leaving me to the wolves that followed.

They came in waves… the guys that just looked at me, while I hung my head… not in shame, but embarrassment… the guys who took the hints and fooled with my body… and the guys who took the bold message seriously.

Not too many actually screwed my ass. Some were too drunk. Others just not brave enough. But there were three who took the lipstick come-on seriously. They mauled me in rough play that was every bit as painful as any spanking or whipping or dungeon scene. Their crude caresses inspired my lust, driving it another notch higher. I had no shame by the time they worked me into a frenzy. I didn’t care what happened, or who took, I only wanted more.

Toward the end of my stint in the restroom, there was one long wild show before dozens—a sexless, ageless crowd playing audience—while a round robin of three cocks fucked themselves to ecstasy inside my ass. There was a big guy, lots of hair and a wide toothy grin… a little wiry fellow I didn’t think could reach my ass, but he managed, and a third, a good-looking one with dark hair, a cowboy’s ruddy face and steamy eyes. My cunt flooded with juice as he worked me over, and was kind enough to help me come with some delightfully playful strokes of my pussy. I grunted hard getting screwed, battered and mangled. And then I was left on my own when the sport had lost some of its excitement. No one else had the balls to have me and the crowd finally drifted away.

Shortly after the men left, Preston returned, and led me naked across the parking lot to the car, while I stumbled along in my high heels. I suppose it didn’t matter by that time. Everyone had already seen me naked, and no one would be calling the cops for my public indecency. I was beyond blushing.

I rode in the back of Preston’s truck—yeah, he had a truck just so he had greater latitude for exposing me—laying out on the flat bed tied with legs spread and my arms over my head. We went at least as far as the first highway rest stop before he finally pulled over, let me out and into the cab beside him. I have no idea how many truckers saw that show. Oblivion had descended on me some time before, and I was riding high on endorphins and euphoria, coming in multiples every time Preston’s hand moved between my thighs. We got to his apartment building, when he remembered that he had forgotten to allow me to dress. He put his suit jacket over my shoulders, but did nothing to button it. My wrists were still tied in front of me. It was late, and the only people around were just a security guard and a guy coming home from a long night at another bar. He was a little stunned to see me and I’m sure in the morning he’d swear I was just a drunken wet dream.

I always wondered if Preston actually knew the guys that fucked me in the rest room. But I never found out. That was not the sort of question I was supposed to ask.

***

This is not the end of my story… there is no appropriate epilogue; just a graphic illustration of how my life has been for the last five years. I don’t expect it to change, and I wouldn’t want it to. Outrageous sex acts fuel our passionate life. He is my master, I am his slave. It is not an easy life. And yet, the raw arousal that dwells in me every day makes it worth the pain, the humiliating sessions of public rebuke and the exacting attention to detail required of me. It’s also worth it for the love. We don’t talk about that much, but I know it’s there. Preston as much said so once. And he says it often without words. Every time I’m ordered to follow his command, and I obligingly obey. I see the look in his eyes, the cool satisfaction he gains from my obedience, and then feel the passionate warmth that follows as the evidence of his love.

For a complete catalogue of Erotic Fiction…

Pink Flamingo Publications

P.O. Box 632, Richland, MI 49083, 616-629-0051

E-mail: catalog@pinkflamingo.com

Website: http://www.pinkflamingo.com