by MC, Doctor
“Go on.”
“When I was fifteen, my best friend and I were looking at one of the Playboys that his dad had. And in there was a picture of a sultan, with a turban and beard, and he’s sitting on pillows. And in the room with him were about twenty young women—all of them hot, and all looking at him like each girl wanted to f—to have sex with him. And they weren’t wearing anything but rings on their fingers, and rings on their toes, and each girl was wearing a transparent veil on her face. And one girl was feeding the man grapes, and another girl was lying on her stomach, sucking—uh, pleasuring the sultan. And that picture was sexier than anything I’d ever seen or imagined. And so whenever anyone says `harem’, this is what I think of.”
Most men would think it weird to be discussing harems with their young, stacked secretary. But for me, the entire last twenty-four hours had been weird—this was just one more little weird thing. Which reminded me—I sipped the coffee that the former feminazi had brought me.
“Coffee okay?” Susie asked nervously.
“It’s great, Susie. You remembered how I like it.”
Hearing that, she visibly relaxed. “Anyway, thanks for explaining about harems and all.”
“You’re welcome, Susie.”
The door that hot-dressed Susie was standing next to, had just opened. It was Mike, first to arrive for the Morning Meeting. He looked my secretary up and down and said, “I like the new look, Susie. You look great!”
Susan turned to eye him as she stood straight, her queenly manner back in full. “I’m still `Ms. Cooper’ to you, Mr. Brown.”
****
My second Morning Meeting as the boss was strange.
The women managers, Kathy and Betty Jane, clearly were offended and confused. They were offended by Susie’s outfit, but they were also confused whose idea it was to wear it. Kathy and Betty Jane had known Susan for five years, and couldn’t imagine her dressing like a slut, just because she’d been ordered to; but Kathy and Betty Jane had known me even longer than that, and knew that I would never give such an order. So how was it that “Ms. Cooper” was dressed this way?
(I’m glad that neither Kathy or Betty Jane asked me that, because I sure as hell didn’t have an answer!)
Mike, Albert, and Bobby had a difficult time, of course, keeping their minds on task, and I often saw a man squirming in his chair. I understood why: I had a titanium boner myself.
Susan played the Ice Princess for everyone but me. But when I spoke to her, she acted like a tail-wagging puppy. This raised eyebrows (among other body parts). Meanwhile, even when Susan was behaving like the Ice Princess, she remained dressed like a soft-porn secretary.
I introduced my people to Mr. Sanderville, the accountant from Detroit. Mike flashed an unhappy face, but said nothing. Mr. Sanderville never noticed Mike’s reaction—Sanderville’s eyes were on Susan’s breasts at the time.
****
After the Morning Meeting, Mr. Sanderville stayed in my inner office, going through paperwork there. While he was there, I phoned Sarah and set up a date for the first evening she was free (which was next Monday, unfortunately). Sarah seemed very glad when I called, and very warm over the phone.
Finally, about three in the afternoon, Sanderville and his laptop headed to the Service Department. As soon as Mr. Sanderville walked out, Susie walked in. Correction: she sashayed in. “I thought he’d never leave,” she growled.
“Huh?”
She moved toward me, her eyes on mine the whole time, those fuck-me heels making her ass move delightfully. “Mr. Hanson, I can’t be very friendly and very helpful with him in the room.”
I saw where this was going. “Susie—”
“Nothing’s more friendly than a blowjob, Mr. Hanson. And if you’re stressed, Mr. Hanson—and with your job, you can’t help but be stressed—”
“Susie—”
“—then nothing’s more helpful than a blowjob.”
She knelt.
“Susie, if I let you blow me at work, this is wildly inappropriate behavior.”
Her hands were working my zipper. “No, Mr. Hanson, I know this isn’t inappropriate behavior. And I would be a bad secretary if I didn’t suck you off at least once a day.” She looked me in the eyes, my cock just an inch from her lips. “If I don’t suck you off, I’m bad. I deserve punishment.”
“Susie—”
She dropped the sex-kitten face for a nervous look. “I’ve only sucked cock once, Mr. Hanson. And then I tried to stop it as soon as possible. So it probably won’t be good today. But if you let me suck you off every day, soon I’ll make it good for you. Promise.” Susie then gave me another sex-kitten smile, and grabbed my cock with her mouth.
“Susie, stop.”
She ignored me. Oh man, that feels good.
“Susie, stop. I mean it.”
She still ignored me. And then I found out, even a teeth-scraping blowjob is addictive—I couldn’t make myself say Stop a third time.
A half-hour later, Susie had sucked me and had swallowed me, and now she stood up, kissed me on the cheek, and sashayed to her desk. It occurred to me that before yesterday, I’d never received an under-table or under-desk blowjob—and now I’d gotten three in under twenty-four hours. I wish I could figure out what I did to make this happen!
****
When I walked into my outer office the next morning, Susie greeted me with a kiss. Her fingernails were shorter, but still of porn-actress length; and she wore a blue ribbon in her long, honey-blond hair. You win some, you lose some. (Not that I minded honey-blond hair.)
Yesterday, as a brunette, she looked like a soft-porn secretary. Today as a red-lipsticked blonde, she was definitely hardcore, and I was definitely hard.
When I walked in, the time being ten minutes before the Morning Meeting, Susie had been surfing the Internet. Boy howdy, I was surprised when I saw her current page: “Lola Lush-Lips Explains: How To Suck Cock.”
After the Morning Meeting broke up, Susie remained in my office. I couldn’t talk her out of sucking me off, and then she demonstrated that she indeed had learned a few things from Lola Lush-Lips.
Blowjobs at work, I decided, are nice to get.
Chapter 5
Deborah Makes A Deal
That afternoon, Mr. Sanderville made his report. His news was not good.
“Mr. Hanson, there is $177,482.36 that your dealership should have, that I can’t account for. The specifics are detailed here.” He laid a folder on my desk.
“Well, I told you how my father was like, at keeping records.”
Mr. Sanderville eyed me. “In at least one case, it might be more than that.” He laid a second folder on my desk. “In April 2006 this dealership sold a 2004 Corvette for fifteen hundred dollars.”
“Fifteen hundred? Wow, some junkyard guy got it cheap.”
“It wasn’t sold to a salvager, but to a regular customer, Deborah something. She put five hundred down, and financed the rest over twelve months.”
I stared at him. “A two-year-old Corvette was sold for fifteen hundred bucks as a regular used-car sale?”
“Yes, and while there is a notation on the contract, `Car is totaled,’ there is no body-shop paperwork to prove such.”
“Holy shit,” I said.
I wrote Mr. Sanderville a check, then I walked him out to his car. Then I rushed back to my office and the Corvette folder.
Within seconds, I’d dropped two flags on the play.
Deborah Denise Parker had been a 23-year-old dancer at Club Physique when she had bought the Corvette, with income listed as forty-seven thousand. I doubted that she had gotten such a low price through great haggling.
The approving sales manager’s signature? It should have been Kathy’s. Instead, I saw the scrawl of Mike Brown. Who signed as finance manager, Betty Jane? Nope, Mike. Who wrote “Car is totaled”? That was Mike’s handwriting.
I phoned my service manager. After pleasantries, Albert was asking me, “So Tim, you hooked u
p with Gothika yet?”
“Not yet, but soon. Anyway, Albert, I want you to recall back to April 2006. Tell me everything about a red Corvette, since you probably handled it.”
“I know just the car you mean. Hold on.” The next thing I heard was you’re-on-hold music.
Soon Albert was back on the phone. “The Corvette was brought to us on April 12, its tag was EATDST, its VIN was—”
“What was wrong with the car? How did we get it?”
“The real thing wrong with it was the high insurance payments. The owner, Harold S. Brenner, was a fifty-two-year guy who changed his mind about owning a Babe Magnet. He told me, `I want an unsexy car now, so I’m buying Ford.’”
“How about body damage? How about mechanically?”
“Body damage was car dings, and some white on the fender. It had 56,784.2 miles on it, and the AC compressor had gone kaput.”
“So it was drivable. Sellable.”
“`Sellable’? Mr. Hanson, I went to Mike and I asked, `How much for the car?’ And I would’ve signed the nastiest finance contract that Betty Jane ever cooked up. But Mike told me, `We already have a buyer.’”
Oh shit, I thought.
****
At five o’clock I was in the showroom, waiting and able to see everything, when Mike got into his car and drove off the lot.
I strolled over to Betty Jane’s office, then chitchatted with her as she logged-off and put on her coat. As soon as Betty Jane was gone, I told Hank, the Assistant Finance Manager, to pull up the current address of Deborah the Corvette-driving stripper. Six minutes after Mike drove off the lot, so did I.
Deborah Parker lived ten miles from the dealership. Her apartment complex was gated, but I punched in 5-0-0-0 as the gate code, and I was in. The complex had prosperous tenants: Cars were late-model, the buildings showed good paint, and the landscaping was fancy. I parked my car near (but not too near) her building, and walked around.
I was driving a demo car, of course, with identical “Tim Hanson Ford” paper rectangles where the license plates were supposed to go. Near to Deborah’s apartment door, I discovered another “Tim Hanson Ford” demo car, its hood being hot to the touch. Two spaces over from that car was the red Corvette. The Vehicle Identification Number (or as much of it as I could remember) in Mr. Sanderville’s folder matched the VIN of this Corvette.
The Corvette’s front was banged up somewhat, so a headlight was busted. But other than this, the car had never been in an accident.
To make sure of that, I gave the car a thorough examination. I looked at every inch of that car, and often I ran my hands over it.
Which set the car alarm off. Other than my ears hurting, the car alarm didn’t bother me. If a cop showed up, I had Mr. Sanderville’s Corvette folder resting on the dash of my car.
I was squatting down, running a hand along the passenger-side door, when I heard an angry woman’s voice behind me. “Hey! HEY YOU, GET AWAY FROM MY CAR!”
I heard male feet running toward me, and Mike’s voice saying, “Yeah, fucker, you better—”
I stood up and turned to face him. “I better what, Mike? Say, who’s your body shop? For a `totaled’ car, this Corvette looks great.”
Mike put on a winning smile, even as his face turned white. “Tim, buddy, it’s not what it looks—”
Enough. I said, “Michael Brown, Deborah Parker, take me inside. We have much to discuss.”
Either it was my righteous anger, or maybe it was my Power? In any case, Deborah invited me into her apartment. She even offered me coffee. Mike sat on her couch and looked wretched.
****
A woman can’t look truly sexy when she’s worried about going to jail. And Deborah was no longer a fresh-faced beauty of twenty-three. But she still was tall, with very long hair. Her hair was that color that’s too dark to be red, and too red to be brunette. And either the dye job was very recent, or I was seeing her natural hair color. Her eyes were brownish green, and she had Katherine Hepburn cheekbones. She moved like a panther, when she didn’t know I was watching her. (When she knew I was watching her, she made nervous gestures and her voice trembled.) Her tits were definitely fake, or else she’d won the Tit Lottery in junior high.
Debbie handed me a cup and saucer, and sat down on the couch, facing me. She sat a foot away from Mike.
Mike started to say something; I raised a hand. I said, “If by five tomorrow, either of you hand me a check for forty-three thousand dollars, you two won’t go to prison. The check must be a cashier’s check, made out to `Tim Hanson Ford,’ and it must be given to me personally.”
Mike said, “That’s more than it bluebooked for.”
I glared at him. “I figured-in six percent simple interest since April 2006. The forty-three is nonnegotiable; don’t even ask.”
I stood up and walked toward the kitchen. “Talk it over,” I said.
They didn’t talk long. They walked into the kitchen and Deborah told me, “We don’t have it. We don’t begin to have it.” She was in tears.
“`Don’t have it’?” I said. I turned to Mike. “My dealership is short 177 grand. Tell us, Michael Brown, how much of that is your doing? Besides the Corvette, I mean.”
“Sixty thou, maybe seventy. Your dad never noticed.”
Deborah turned on him. “You stole seventy thousand dollars, and you can’t spend it on keeping us out of prison?”
Mike sighed. “It got spent long ago—”
“On other strippers?”
Mike looked at me. “What about my job?”
“What about it?” I said to him. To both of them I said, “Here’s your chance to be creative: Make me an offer. But, Michael Brown, Deborah Parker, whatever offer you make, if I agree to it, I expect you to keep the deal completely.” Then I eyed Mike. “And if we reach a deal, I’ll ask Betty Jane to write it up.”
“Well, I suppose I can let Payroll take three hundred a month out of my check,” Mike said, with the tone of someone sacrificing much. He was also working an Assumed Close on me.
“No deal,” I said. Let the clown try to figure out whether I was saying No to his money offer, his assumption that he would still be on my payroll after today, or both.
“Mr. Hanson,” Deborah said to me, with an edge to her voice, “didn’t Mike take you to a strip club a few days ago? What club did you go to?”
“Debbie, baby,” Mike said, “right now we have—”
I couldn’t figure out what was going on with those two, so I answered honestly, “Mike took me to the Nimfo Club.”
She slapped Mike, hard. Then she turned to me and said, “Mr. Hanson, you said to be `creative.’ You said to make you an offer, right? So here’s my offer: I become your devoted sex slave and servant girl. Whatever money I earn, you get. You want sex, just order me. You want your floor scrubbed, order me. Home-cooked meals, ditto.”
“For how long?” I asked.
“Goddammit, Debbie!” said Mike. “You are talking total pervert shit here.”
Angry Deborah said to me, “I’ve talked for a while about putting in an app at the Nimfo Club. But Mike Shitbrown here kept telling me, `That place has liquor violations, and health-code violations, they deal coke in the parking lot, the city’s about to close it down.’ And now I find out he was all hot and heavy with some redhead named Sunset?”
“Debbie babe, she’s not special—”
“Oh, shut up, Mike,” Deborah said.
Then Deborah calmed herself, and again spoke to me: “As for the sex-slave stuff, it’s for as long as you feel is fair—Mike says you’re honest. Everything I have is yours, while I’m your slave. Well, except that I keep title to the Corvette.”
Deborah fell silent. She and Mike looked at me.
My first thought was, This is a joke. But Deborah looked too serious for me to keep that idea.
My second thought was, This is an agreement I can’t ask Betty Jane to write up, Deborah must know that. I bet she’ll try to welsh. But if Deborah was
working a con on me, it was fooling Mike, too.
The fact was, I’d come to Deborah’s apartment not expecting to collect the forty-three grand, and I’d already decided I wouldn’t let these two off the hook for anything less. So now I had two choices: sex-enslavement of Deborah (which might work out), or jailing Mike and Deborah.
If she’s going to welsh, best to find out now. I said to her, “Mike and I are going to drive our cars back to the dealership, and then I’ll return here, after Mike and I take care of some administrative stuff. Deborah, I accept your offer; and as soon as I walk in your door again, your enslavement begins.”
She gulped, then nodded.
Back at the dealership, I collected Mike’s demo-car keys, his general-manager keys, and his dealership credit card; got him to fill out (in my office, not his) all the paperwork that fired dealership general managers have to fill out; and then Hank and I watched Mike clean out his desk. Then I made Mike turn his back on his computer, and I changed his computer password.
Right after that, I got in my demo car and I headed for Deborah’s apartment.
I don’t know how Mike got home later. Bus, or taxi, or friend-as-chauffeur, or walked? Who cares? was my attitude—the lowlife had robbed my dad!
****
Firing a general manager takes time, and so it was awhile after I’d left Deborah’s apartment complex, before I returned. I was shocked to find the red Corvette still around; I’d expected her to skip on me. I walked to the door of Deborah’s apartment; I knocked. I had no idea what to expect.
Deborah answered the door.
Chapter 6
Slave Deborah
I walked to the door of Deborah’s apartment; I knocked.
Deborah answered the door.
She was wearing green high-cut panties, a green transparent baby-doll teddy, and green platform heels. Her red-brunette hair was pinned up, and she sported dangling green-stone earrings. She looked hot.
She stood there, looking at me for several seconds; she said nothing. Then she squared her shoulders and stepped back. Still looking at me, Deborah said, “I invite you to come in, sir.”