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This story contains adult material and, if you’re not of age to read that/don’t like what you see here, don’t read it. I think it goes without saying that some of the acts that take place in this work of fiction should never be attempted by anyone, professional or otherwise, living or dead. Rape is bad, M’kay?
It is unseasonably cold outside for so early in September and the skies are clouded gray with the threat of an early snowfall or a downpour of freezing rain. This being a suburb of Denver, the wind and the promise of worse to come, has deterred almost no one from their daily business.
Thus, no one in particular notices the two women enjoying a late lunch, in a tiny Italian restaurant called Cecilia’s. Their table is a corner one and the blonde, bundled up in her fur-lined white winter coat despite relative warmth of the restaurant, is bunched up next to the wall. Anyone looking at her would say she looked trapped, but fortunately, no one is looking at her. Her blue eyes are on her plate, intensely studying what had been described to her as a gourmet mixture of baby greens and had turned out to be an intensely unsatisfactory meal. She pulls her coat around herself, tighter, and the red fur lining tickles her chin.
“I don’t like it, Eliza,” she says to her dinner partner, at last.
“Why ever not, Flora?” asks the other woman, a hint of amusement in her voice that suggests she knows exactly ‘why ever not.’ Eliza is Flora’s opposite in many ways, with dark hair to Flora’s ash blonde, delicate boned and slender to Flora’s prodigious bust and curves, a porcelain doll to Flora’s warm tan.
Both women have one particular interest in common, however, and this is what has brought them together over lunch.
“Why isn’t Kara here, again?”
“I told you, she had to work. Apparently the florist’s business is more cutthroat than either of us can imagine.”
“Goddammit…You’re quite sure he’s 18?”
“Of course. I’m pretty damned sure he’s a virgin, too.”
“But the recruits-”
“Need someone to train on, anyway, and I’m tired of borrowing Andrew, since my last pet’s unfortunate accident, and I know damn well you hate sharing him. I know my girls. Can I trust that you know yours?”
“Of course,” says Flora, offended. “Andrea is practically my sister, I’ve just been waiting for her to come of age so I could bring her in!”
“Okay, so, if we know the recruits aren’t going to freak out when they realize we keep slaves-”
“An unwilling slave-”
“Debatably, my dear, there’s no other kind.”
This stops Flora in her tracks. She swizzles a breadstick violently in the remains of her salad dressing and takes a vicious bite out of it. Eliza smiles crookedly and goes back to her tiramisu.
“I’ll be there,” says Flora.
Inwardly, Eliza rolls her eyes. As if the Vice President of the Denver chapter of the Heartbreakers’ Society would miss an initiation night.
“I’ve got a few things to take care of,” she says adjusting her wine-colored turtleneck and gathering her long, leather trench coat about her slim shoulders. Her straight hair spills down the back of it in a cascade of black on black, a silky length that even Flora, with her long blonde tresses, secretly envies. Flora scampers outside, tan skirt whipping around her knees and Eliza strolls leisurely through the bitter wind to her car, a luxurious older model Lexus that she’s had for many years. She’s taking the day off, today, but she’s going in to work, now, to pay a surprise visit to one of her coworkers.
The severe click of Eliza’s heels on tile turn few heads as she enters the office where she works, everyone here is used the sound, by now. Nonetheless, a few men’s eyes cut her way as she sweeps into the building, her leather coat trailing like a cape, her long hair fanning out behind her. These men watch her until she disappears into the elevator, adjust themselves and hope no one noticed their momentary indisposition.
Eliza noticed, of course, she always does, and as the elevator ascends, she reminds herself to consider bringing one or two of her better looking admirers into the fold, perhaps as a gift to the one of the new girls.
She gets off the elevator and smiles kindly at the blonde secretary, a young-ish thing with a hippie name and a yellow, lacy dress that borders on unprofessional and raises Eliza’s well-manicured eyebrows.
“Daffodil?” she asks. “Is Andrew in, today?”
“Why, yes, Ms. Powers, he is. He, um, asked me to hold his calls for the next hour, though.”
Eliza smiles, winsomely. “I rather expect I’m the reason he asked you to hold his calls, dear,” she lies. “We have a meeting scheduled.”
“Oh, um, I see. Well, I guess I’ll buzz you in?”
Eliza waits politely while the secretary does just that.
Eliza enters the vast office and quietly shuts the door behind her, locking it. She never takes her eyes off the pale, older business man frozen with fear behind the desk that, along with a panoramic view of the city through the vast windows, dominates the room.
“Strip and come here,” says Eliza. She checks to make sure that they will not be disturbed and the man, Andrew, hastens to obey, to turn off the intercom and to close the blinds that shield the world’s eyes from his office.
“Master,” he says, in a voice softened by fear and training. Eliza smiles at the title that she and the other officers in the Heartbreakers’ Society prefer to be addressed by. It took a while to train Andrew to use it, but he is a quick learner. “Master, I didn’t know you were coming. I might have prepared.”
“Have you something to prepare, Sugar?”
Andrew, slave name of Sugar, is forty-something, some few years older than Eliza, and has gone a bit to seed-his short-cropped blond hair is lightening to white and he has gained a layer of fat that hadn’t been there in his thirties. He has broken into a cold sweat in his three piece suit, which he rapidly sheds. His pale face has gone paler with fear, not just anticipation, Eliza realizes, and now she sees why. In her three inch heeled boots, she towers over his barefoot form as he cowers before her. He is about to strip off his shorts, but Eliza stops him with a soft, but commanding, word.
“What are those?” she asks.
“What? What?” he whimpers, knowing exactly the answer to his question.
Eliza strides across the thickly carpeted floor, seizes the elastic of his underwear with an immaculate, pink nailed finger and snaps it. He jumps.
“I’m sure that I told you to wear your pink lace panties, today Andrew. What are these?”
“Uh,” says Andrew, showing off the brilliant mind that had got him this corner office.
“They look, to me, suspiciously like white cotton y-fronts. Do my eyes deceive me?”
“No, Master.”
“I thought not. Why, Andrew, are you wearing them?”
“Oh, please Master! I did wear the pink ones, I swear I did, but they were so itchy! I just took them off for a little while!”
“Andrew, are you under the impression that you are too good to wear women’s clothing?”
“No, M-”
“Do you think that, as a man, you are entitled to any more comfort than a woman?”
“No, M-”
“Have you not seen what your Circe-forsaken secretary is wearing today? What do you want to bet she’s wearing a bra and panties to match? Shall I invite her in to check?”
“Oh, please, M-”
“Take them off, before I tear them off, and be thankful I’m not letting her in to see what a disgrace her boss really is.”
Andrew all but falls over, throwing himself out of the offending garment.
“Now,” said Eliza, taking a seat in Andrew’s high-backed, comfortable office chair. “I want you to undress me, starting with my feet.”
Andrew rushes to obey, kneeling naked before her and slipping her boots off with reverential tenderness.
“You are not allowed to kiss my feet, today, slave, because you have been very bad.”
“Yes, Master, I have misbehaved.” He unrolls her knee high silk stockings, hands atremble with lust, and barely restraining himself from taking her rosebud pink toes into his mouth, to suck and worship with his tongue. As he undoes her pants, she strips off her close-fitting sweater, and rises to allow him to help her out of her professional-looking slacks. She stands, now, in black leather bra and bikini panties, so much flawless skin bare and her small, but round, breasts inviting Andrew to take each mouthful of flesh and suck and kiss their nipples to hardness. He knows he will not be allowed, not today. His shaft has grown to full height and stiffness, now, and Eliza bids him to kneel on his own suit jacket and spread his ass fully open for her. He obeys and it bobs and bounces around, making him look foolish.
The wind blows and it is so quiet in his office that he can hear its insistent wails as Eliza stuff his mouth full of his cotton shorts and forces his forehead down to the carpet. He sees, out of the corner of his eye, the beautiful woman go to her carelessly discarded coat and, from a secret chamber sewn into the lining, extract a riding crop of the same black leather as her bra and panties.
Andrew swallows his fear around his own pre cum stained shorts and when the first blow hits his raised ass, he moans, softly so as to not alert his secretary to his distress.
Three cracks with the crop in a row and he knows that Eliza is not hitting him nearly as hard as she wants to, nor as hard as he deserves. He fears that the sound will carry as the rapid-fire snap of leather on his reddening ass sets his whole body on fire with a delicious, sting-y sensation that is, for Andrew, more pain than pleasure. He feels his skin tingle with warmth beneath Eliza’s blows and the slight chill that has seeped in from outside gives way to uncomfortable heat. He’s glad, now, that he’s kept the thermostat down, today, as beads of moisture collect at his hairline and seep into the carpet. His cock is still hard and, as Eliza punishes him with the crop, the tip rubs against the silk lining of his suit jacket. His balls tighten and more pre cum leaks from his cock head, staining the fabric on which he kneels a darker shade of gray and likely ruining it. Eliza sees the slave’s balls contract and strikes him a blow on his vulnerable and exposed asshole. He stifles his scream, biting down hard on his gag, and it comes out as a desperate groan. His entire body has gone as red as his well-cropped ass with the effort to keep from crying out. His poor anus contracts as if trying to escape another painful blow.
Eliza pauses and allows Andrew’s harsh breath and the wind’s low moans to mingle in the spacious office. She’s wet; Andrew can smell it through the buttery soft leather as he comes back to himself, pain sharpening his senses instead of dulling them. Then, she strikes one more blow, this one to his shaved, red scrotum. This time, the only sound the breath she’s knocked out of him, coming out in a whoosh tinged with a whimper.
“Dress,” she commands him. “I was going to let you eat my pussy, and maybe even cum, but you’ve been a bad boy, and you haven’t begun to earn it.” Eliza dresses herself and reapplies her pastel pink lipstick, while Andrew lies there, recovering. She won’t repeat her order, not just yet, because she’s too busy admiring her handiwork on the tapestry of Andrew’s red-splotched ass and because she’s not sure he can move, just yet. She rifles through his desk drawers, looking for the infamous itchy pink panties. When she finds them, under some errant paperwork that made the rounds at the last board meeting, he’s up and gathering his clothes. He staggers to her, takes the panties without being ordered, and slips into them.
“Andrew? Sugar?”
“Yes, Master?”
“You will be at my ranch no later than four this afternoon. By four-thirty, you will be locked in your cell and wearing nothing but your pink panties. Flora will be there, and she will see to it that you have obeyed me. Understood?”
“Yes, Master.”
“If you fail me in this, you will be subjected to a worse punishment than ever before. Understood?”
“Yes, Master.”
“It’s three, already, so you should probably get going, shortly after I leave. Tell your secretary that you’re feeling a touch off-color; it won’t be a lie, after all!”
As she leaves, she hears Andrew telling his secretary that he is coming down with a touch of the flu and will be leaving shortly. Eliza smiles and wonders if the secretary even has a clue.
She navigates the suburban streets, attracting no attention with her posh car and young professional appearance. She could be just another housewife coming home from a shopping trip, or a young working woman on her way home to husband and kids. Eliza is waiting for something, a call, and when she receives it, she will make a call of her own, and pick up something she’s been wanting for herself for a very long time. The call does come, shortly after she’s slid the sleek car into park, and she’s about to leave when she notices something. The prey has come to her.
The pair walk down the sidewalk, heedless of the cold, gray weather that has descended upon them. A boy, 18 years old and a high school senior, dressed in the uniform of his private high school, and a college girl in a hot pink dress and heels better suited for a cocktail party than attending classes. She has the boy’s coat on over her slim, otherwise bare, shoulders, but she’s still shivering. They’re both blond, this young man and woman, though the girl is tanned and her gold hair is in loose ringlets, the most charming and natural thing about her. The boy is pale and his hair has a watery color to it that is not at all appealing, though it falls stylishly over his blue eyes. There is a flush to his cheeks that is either from the wind or simply his proximity to a girl that is model tall and thin and dressed the part, too.
Eliza hangs up the phone quietly, as if she’s afraid she might disturb her quarry and send them running, like gazelles with a lioness after them. She cracks the window ever so slightly to listen as they talk.
“Thanks for walking me home, Izac,” says the girl.
“Anytime, Layla. It’s nice to hang out with you, now that you’re in college and stuff. I, um, you know, if you want to hang out some more, my church is having a pizza party, this next Wednesday.”
Eliza rolls her eyes and stifles the urge to jump out of the car and slap the boy silly. A church party is not, she feels, a good place for a date, not a first one, especially, though maybe a last one. Layla, however, merely giggles and says, “I’d be glad to. Pick me up at four-thirty?”
“Yeah, I-”
The young woman bends-she is taller than him in her heels, she has to bend-and plants a gentle, chaste kiss on the boy’s pale lips. The kiss smears her bright pink lipstick on his mouth and making him go the shade of a beet beneath his colorless hair.
Eliza tries not to gag on the sweetness of it all, while somewhere in the back of her head, the innocence of the scene before her actually turns her on. The girl gives Izac back his coat and rushes, as quickly as she can rush, into the split level before which Eliza has parked. The door closes and Eliza springs, calling Izac’s name.
He looks around guiltily, as if such a chaste kiss is some kind of illicit sin, to be covered up at the earliest possibility. He sees Eliza and his sense of shame, as yet unearned, deepens. He goes to her, pokes his head in the now fully-opened passenger side window and says, “So, um, did you witness all of that, Aunt ‘Liza?”
“I’m not your aunt by any stretch of the imagination. And yes, I did witness that.”
He moans, humiliated. “Don’t tell dad, okay?”
“Your secret is safe with me. Speaking of your dad, he sent me to pick you up. He’s working late, tonight, and he doesn’t want you to stay home alone.”
The boy’s embarrassment gives way to exasperation here, and he slumps, right there in the car window, like he’s just up and died of the humiliation of it all.
“Come on, kiddo. The ranch isn’t so bad. Flora made her world-famous fudge, when I told her you were coming over.”
He raises his blue eyes to Eliza’s silver ones and says, “I’m 18 years old and my dad won’t even let me stay at home alone over night. He’s been such a controlling jerk since mom died, like my having a car or being independent at all is going to make me get cancer, like she did.” He slams open the car door, throws his skinny self into the passenger seat, and slams it closed, again.
“I’ll talk to him, soon. He does seem to be taking it to the extreme. One wonders what he’s trying to protect you from.”
“The world.”
Eliza smiles, faintly. “So, how was your birthday, last week? Sorry I couldn’t make it.”
“It was pretty good. Say, Eliza, you go to church, don’t you?”
In a manner of speaking, she wanted to say. “I attend worship services regularly, yes.”
“I was gonna invite you to my baptism, yesterday, but dad wouldn’t let me. He’s such a jerk.”
“Your, um, oh?”
“I’m ready to become a real leader in our local flock. I invited Layla to church with me, maybe she’ll get saved. Of course, it’s ungodly for females to be leaders in the True Church and your souls aren’t as important, Pastor doesn’t think, as those of men. But still, I think you have a special sort of importance, you bear the children, after all.”
Eliza is shocked at the turn of this conversation and, though she knows that all the words in that bit of logorrhea are technically words, she isn’t sure she likes them strung together like that. She wants to say that if he ever tells her he has “something on his heart,” she’ll smack the stupid out of him. She also wants to ask if his dad knows or, worse, encourages him.
She asks, instead, “Do you go to church, often?”
“At least three times a week,” he says, the sin of pride creeping into his voice.
“When I was a kid, they only had it once a week. So, does your dad go with you?”
“Usually, when he can get away from work. I’d like him to take a more active role, but he just doesn’t have time.” The boy’s face crumples into an entirely unappealing frown. “I just don’t think that’s godly, spending so much time working that you have no time for Jesus.”
‘Circe,’ thinks Eliza, ‘no wonder he’s still a virgin. I’d almost doubted that, until now.’
“When did you start at this church?”
“Oh, a few years after mom died. Dad thought it was a pretty solid place for a church home. I’m glad he did.”
She lets him ramble on about church, school and more church, glad that he never let her get a word in edgewise, since she wants to think. She hadn’t known that the boy was being set up to become a woman hater in a church that encouraged the stifling and (likely) abuse of women and girls. She’s not, however, surprised that his dad is behind it. That is one of the major reasons behind tonight’s forced intervention on this boy’s behalf, by the Heartbreakers’ Society.
They pull in at Eliza’s sprawling country home and the Society’s Colorado headquarters. Eliza wastes no time in ushering the boy into the dining room where he tucks into the homemade fudge and the tall glass of milk. Eliza excuses herself and when she comes back, the boy has passed out from the potent sleeping potion in his little snack.
TBC
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