Shameful Influence (Bound for Service Book 7)

by Emily Tilton

  She caught Judy’s eyes in the mirror, the woman in the white coat gazing steadily back at her with one eyebrow raised and a little smile on her lips.

  “We may put the collar back on you, Sally,” she said, “if we feel we need to. As I told you before, though, you’re going to go home with a different sort of device to train you while you’re away from us.”

  “What?” Sally demanded desperately. “And what... what does he...”

  “If you mean your master, Sally,” Judy said severely, “call him that, or you’ll find yourself over the table for another whipping.”

  Sally bit her lip as her body responded to that, too, with a clench between her legs.

  “What does my master want...” she struggled to find the words with which to define the information she needed, knowing how ambiguous practically anything would sound, “...from me.” She chewed on the inside of her cheek, trying to keep from thinking about the part of the answer about which Judy had already talked: the part of her that it seemed her master intended to claim as his own.

  “Sit in the chair, Sally,” Judy said. “Or I’ll have Vic put your collar back on. We need to dry your hair, and then we need to get you into your new lingerie. After that, we’ll send you home, and you’ll wait for your master to tell you his wishes.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Eric let Sally think about the events of the morning until just before her final meeting of the day, with Rhonda Mayfair. At five o’clock, half an hour before the 5:30 p.m. check-in Sally and Rhonda had every evening, he texted the governor’s secure phone while she finished up a constituent meeting with a pair of local representatives from the capital’s chamber of commerce, interested in her ideas about future tax policy.

  “So if you could just give us an idea...” one of the delegates, a Madison City restaurant owner started to say. He was a portly, florid man with an obsequious fake smile on his face.

  “Not to push your hand, or anything like that, Governor,” added an upscale clothing merchant, elegant in a beautifully tailored black dress.

  Eric pressed send, watching Sally’s face closely from his virtual vantage point just in front of her desk. The young governor, wearing the same pantsuit in which she had arrived at the New You day spa, started very visibly and looked down at her desk, where her phone had just vibrated with a very audible buzz.

  The restaurant owner and the clothier frowned at each other, then looked back at Sally, whose face had gone bright red, because she hadn’t been able to keep herself from reading the message her master had sent.

  End this meeting and go to your bedroom. It’s time to open the box.

  Sally had no bra or panties on, now. She hadn’t been allowed to leave New You wearing any underwear at all, and all day she had fidgeted with her jacket on the one hand and squirmed in her seat on the other, terribly conscious of her filthy secret.

  The box, however, matte black and sleek, the size of a shoe box, clearly occupied an even greater share of her mind than her panty-less, bra-less state. Portia had handed the box to Sally as the governor left the day spa, saying, “This is for you, Sally. You’re not to open it until you’re told to do so.”

  All the way back to the governor’s mansion in her limo Sally had stolen furtive glances at the box, as shown by the rear-facing camera placed in the headrest of the car’s driver’s seat. She had put it on the seat next to her and then jerked her hands away, as if it had shocked her like the collar. Eric had even caught her twice, looking at the box and at the same time touching her neck, apparently unconscious of her fingers’ nervous movement there.

  When the car had arrived back at the mansion, Sally had hesitated long moments before taking the box into her grasp again. Only when Justin had opened the door of the limo had Sally darted her hands forward to pick up the box and gathered it awkwardly to her chest.

  Now it sat in her desk drawer, and though Sally tried to regain her composure and look steadily, with a theatrically embarrassed smile, at the representatives of the chamber of commerce, her eyes nevertheless flicked downward in its direction, as if the box might grow legs and teeth and chew its way out into the light.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, moving her knee subtly though to Eric unmistakably to press the button under her desk that would bring an administrative assistant into the room. “I have to wrap this up. Thanks for coming and for letting me know your concerns.”

  “But—” the clothier said.

  “I’m sure you understand that I can’t discuss ongoing negotiations with the legislature,” Sally said smoothly, rising and—though only for an instant—biting her lip as if at the feeling of her suit pants against the newly bare places between her thighs. “I want to make sure you know, though, that Madison is going to continue to be pro-business.”

  She had managed to get the blush off her face, now, and her face wore a professional demeanor again as she extended her hand to the visitors. The door to the outer office opened and Heather, one of the administrative assistants, entered.

  “Governor,” Heather said, “there’s a call from Washington for you.”

  Eric noted with a little amusement that Sally had exercised unnecessary overkill in both rising and calling for Heather to interrupt. The secretary’s face showed a little confusion as she noticed that the governor hadn’t, apparently, needed the fake call from Washington as an excuse. Noticing the expression, Sally colored again for just a moment, then returned to the smooth flow of business.

  “Thanks, Heather,” she said. “Hank, Wendy, it’s been a pleasure. Heather will show you out.”

  When the door had closed behind the representatives from the chamber of commerce Sally stood in the same place for a long time, her body still turned toward the exit to the outer office, where her staff worked to keep the young state of Madison on track to its prosperous future. Her face, however, turned back toward the desk, where her phone sat and the box waited, hidden for now deep in a drawer.

  In a second video window, Eric saw that Rhonda Mayfair had emerged from her own office, a slightly confused look on her usually commanding face. The chief of staff walked briskly toward the door to the governor’s office.

  Eric waited until Rhonda had almost reached the door, then sent another text. The phone buzzed loud on the hardwood of the desk, and Sally jumped like a startled cat, turned and almost ran toward her desk.

  Just as she reached the middle of the room, however—in fact, at the very moment her briskly moving feet stood atop the middle of the great seal of Madison, where she had knelt, naked for her master, the previous night—Rhonda knocked on the door and, as only the chief of staff could, entered the room immediately.

  Sally froze in place, cheeks instantly aflame, and turned back toward the door.

  “Rhonda! Hi!” the governor said, slowing her feet and, clearly trying to look casual, moving again toward her desk.

  “How did that go?” Rhonda asked, her puzzled frown growing slightly as she observed Sally’s rather unusual behavior.

  “Really well,” Sally said. She put a confident smile on her face and the color faded from her cheeks.

  “But you ended it early?”

  Sally cocked her head a little. “Yeah. Sorry. There’s a thing I need to do with my skin—the spa persuaded me to try this new stuff.”

  Good girl, Eric thought, smiling.

  “Oh?” Rhonda asked.

  “Yeah—I mean, it’s kind of... private.” As if on cue, the blush returned to the governor’s cheeks, now.

  Rhonda smiled. Sally’s eyes darted to the phone on her desk. Her emotions concerning the still-unread text from her master obviously had a great deal of complexity.

  “Well, alright,” Rhonda said. “I know you don’t like to talk about that stuff, but if you ever want to, I’m all ears.”

  Sally’s face got a little redder at that, and Rhonda laughed. The governor had found a perfect way to put her chief of staff off any scent that might have wafted from Sally’s strange
behavior. Rhonda’s manipulation of the brilliant young lawyer into a candidate and now a governor had turned in large part on the older woman’s respecting Sally’s privacy: their relationship’s most important moment, Eric knew, had occurred when Rhonda had for most intents and purposes gotten rid of the dirty-girl pictures without—to Sally’s knowledge—looking at them, by acquiring Joe Barrila’s phone and destroying it.

  So the governor thought, though Eric also knew that Rhonda Mayfair knew very well what the pictures showed, and indeed Rhonda’s organization had their own copy of them, in case of emergency. Without the fascinating element of Sally’s chief of staff belonging to the Guard’s most powerful enemies, the St. Hillary Island matter might well have merited a far less interesting solution than the one Eric had put in place.

  He had a difficult time regretting all the effort he had invested in putting the lovely Sally Donaldson into training as the submissive she needed to be, though. The girl was easy to fall for, and at the moment Eric had enough experience with training pretty, achingly repressed young women—and with falling in love with them—to see the signs.

  He could see them in Rhonda Mayfair, too. Despite the dark-haired woman’s training, her voice lingered just a bit too long on words like ears in “I’m all ears.” Sally’s chief of staff, sent by the Groupe Synergistique to control the new state of Madison through its governor, had developed a stronger attachment to her young charge than she had intended.

  Lucky me, Eric thought as he watched Sally try to look casual as she picked up the phone, which Rhonda had verified had no detectable modifications in its security software or firmware, since I have the data that tells me that Governor Sally Donaldson needs a master, not a girlfriend.

  The Guard’s philosophy—as backed up by the Institute’s vast dataset—dictated of course that a girl could quite reasonably have both a master and a girlfriend. Sally herself might soon be made to serve the pleasure of another woman, if her master thought it helpful for her training. What the young governor needed, however, represented a very different story.

  What she needed she found now on her phone, distilled into a brief text message.

  Bring the box into your bedroom and open it, dirty girl. Send Rhonda away. If you don’t, you’ll have to be whipped again.

  Eric though he could see in Sally’s eyes the memories of her punishment in diaper position that morning at the day spa: just for an instant those scenes seemed to flit across her blue pupils in the interplay between her brows, her eyelids, and her quick glance up to Rhonda. Her face went even pinker, but she looked up at her chief of staff with raised eyebrows as if she had seen nothing of importance in the message.

  “See you at 5:30?” the governor asked.

  “You don’t want to do it now?” Rhonda asked, frowning a little. “Then you can deal with... whatever it is?”

  The tall woman clearly put all the effort she could into hiding her interest in Sally’s ‘spa treatment,’ but she had definitely taken the little hint of bait Eric had dropped in her vicinity. Rhonda now needed to know what Sally had going on, in some unspecified area of her body but—presumably, as far as Rhonda’s thoughts were concerned—in the bikini area.

  “No, thanks,” Sally said. “I want to get this over with.”

  Oh, Governor, Eric thought, it won’t be over for a long time.

  “Okay,” Rhonda said. “See you in a bit.”

  Sally stood in the same place, next to her desk, until Rhonda had closed the office door behind her. Then the governor, a crease developing in her forehead, moved around the desk and stooped to open the drawer. She took out the black box, and Eric saw her swallow hard, her fingers trembling as she held it in front of her.

  With a final desperate look all around the office as if she thought she might detect the surveillance equipment and have it ripped out and end this terrible ordeal that had awakened so many buried thoughts and feelings, Sally moved toward the door that led to her private apartment. Her adorable little mouth, its lips tightly pursed, twisted to the side, and Eric felt certain she had felt her silk blouse rubbing against her stiff nipples, and her bare pussy against the front of her suit pants.

  The number in the upper right of his screen said 8. Since leaving New You six hours before her overall arousal hadn’t dipped below 5, and had averaged 7.2.

  Eric pressed send on another message. The phone, still on Sally’s desk, buzzed, and the governor whipped around to look at it. Biting her lip, she went back to see what her master had written.

  Bring this phone, Sally.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The walk from Sally’s office down the little hall to her bedroom couldn’t be more than twenty feet, but it felt like a hundred yards. She thought that a sane woman, even one under the kind of horrible duress Sally had experienced over the past twenty-four hours, should be able to forget—or at least to push to the side, mentally—that she didn’t have underwear on.

  Lots of women didn’t wear panties, right? She had read that many times in magazines and their online equivalents, even if every time she had read such a piece—More and more ladies are ditching their knickers, or something like that—her cheeks had gotten warm. It shouldn’t represent a big deal.

  But every step reminded her that she had a master now, whether she liked it or not, and he had taken away her bra and her panties. He had sent her home with the black box in her hands. He had bared the pussy that felt so strange and new, after he had had it fucked by a big, hard penis.

  Sally had tried to stay seated at her desk as much as she could, since returning from the ‘day spa,’ even though her bottom still ached a little from the whipping Judy had given her. Walking—especially that first walk, from her car to her office—had reminded her, just as it did now, that a man had fucked her hard, from behind, for the first time in her life, his hands on her back and her waist and her shoulder to keep her in place for the slamming thrusts that had left such soreness between her thighs.

  She reached the bedroom door, got through it, closed it behind her. She looked around the luxurious space, trying not to look at the king-sized bed, a beautiful modern interpretation of the sort of antique four-poster in which Sally supposed the governor of a New England state might sleep, peaceful in his or her power.

  The phone buzzed in her breast pocket, and she started with a little cry. Its vibration moved against her left nipple, through two layers of thin silk, without the usual thick, padded nylon of her everyday bra. She felt the tiny bud stiffen immediately, and the sensation sent a thrill down below, too—so strong that her face blazed at the suspicion that she would have to have her suit cleaned, that there would be shameful stains inside it from her wantonness, even if the dark fabric rendered them nearly invisible.

  The kinds of stains a dirty girl makes.

  They kept calling her dirty girl. To her dismay, Sally realized that the phrase had somehow made its way deep inside her mental processes. Every time she thought it, she felt a little jolt of need, down there, and in her mind she saw the picture, the most mortifying picture, where she had put her finger in her bottom as if to tell whoever saw the image and understood it that he could claim her as his bed girl and reserve her anus for his personal pleasure.

  Awkwardly she shifted the horrible box to her left hand and fished out the phone, which had gone on buzzing, meaning a phone call rather than a text message. Trembling, she tapped the button and put it to her ear.

  “Put the box on the bed, Sally. Put the phone next to it, in speaker mode. Then take off all your clothes.”

  She looked around. Did her master have cameras here, too? She hadn’t even thought of that.

  “Do as you’re told, sweetheart,” Master Eric said. “Yes, I can see you.”

  Again? Sally thought desperately as she took the three steps necessary to bring her to the edge of her bed. She happily put the black box down on her purple comforter, glad to be rid of a burden that while not being at all heavy had seemed to burn her hands. L
ess happily she tapped the button for the phone’s speaker and laid it on the bed.

  “Good girl,” Master Eric’s voice said. “Time to be naked for me, as you should.”

  Sally bit her lip, and a little sob emerged from her chest. She had clenched again, between her legs, and she could feel the wetness there as she shifted her weight nervously from foot to foot, looking at the box and the phone lying on the bed like dangerous predators in wait for her.

  Another thought of what she might do to her suit pants made her start to undress. She shed her blazer and laid it on the bed, then kicked off her shoes. Trying not to think about the words Time to be naked for me Sally unfastened the button at her waist and let her pants drop around her feet. She felt her forehead crease as she caught the fragrance of her arousal, captured inside her pants for the last few hours as she had found herself unable to think of anything but the box in her desk drawer. It smelled the way Vic’s huge, hard cock had smelled when he had made her suck it.

  I’m being blackmailed. That’s what’s happening here. I don’t want this. I’m being blackmailed.

  Sally tried desperately to focus her mind on the coercion, on the unknown political reason a man had decided to blackmail the governor of Madison. Something about St. Hillary Island, about the fortified compound there.

  “Take your socks off next, Sally,” the voice from the phone said. “Then the blouse.”

  She bent to pull off the trouser socks. She breathed as deeply as she could, through her nose, trying to take control of the situation somehow. The idea that she might still go to Rhonda and tell her everything welled up in her mind, as if the sheer mundanity of a beige trouser sock could cut through the horrible spell cast on her by the man at the other end of the phone.