Nothing Less

by Reese Gabriel

  They said, though, that she had no heart, and until John Conner came along, no one had ever remembered her so much as giving a man the time of day. Conner was her match, the only one fit to tame her. At six-foot-two, with a torso and upper body lined with muscle, and handsome, hard chiseled features, he was the sort to wet any girl’s panties.

  Chelsea saw him coming, of course, and quickly claimed immunity to his sly, sexy smile and impenetrable blue eyes. They met at trial, on opposite sides of the witness box. Blaine was an expert witness, testifying to the particular caliber of a murder weapon and the range and efficacy of its firepower. In her opinion she had made mincemeat of his testimony, thereby restoring the credibility of her client, who claimed that while his own .32 caliber pistol had been recently fired, it was not the one that killed the victim, a rival industrialist.

  Conner was waiting for her outside the courtroom at recess. Standing very still, blocking her path, he managed to look lazy and hungry all at once, a lion scouting dinner.

  “Sorry about court; nothing personal,” she droned, brushing past him, heels tapping briskly, hips swaying in her short knit skirt, bosom sweetly rocking beneath her tailored jacket.

  She was already several feet down the dusty brown corridor of justice when she heard him say, “I’d like you to join me for a drink.”

  Chelsea whirled on her fashionable heels. “That’s out of order, mister,” she informed him, her own green eyes stoking for a fight. “Entirely inappropriate.”

  He took several steps, closing the gap. In his hand was a business card, which he pressed into her palm. “The Rouge Room, at eight.”

  Her mouth hung down in unprecedented stupor. The words ‘fuck the hell off’ stuck in her throat, unable to come out.

  “I’d like to send you something to wear as well.”

  That last remark set her eyebrows in motion. She had more than enough ammo to lambaste the arrogant son of a bitch, but something made her hold back. “If you’ll excuse me,” she deferred, sidestepping him.

  “As you wish,” he smiled, inclining his head respectfully as he cleared her the tiniest of pathways.

  There was another brushing of shoulders, pure electricity as she passed him, having decided to abandon her planned trip to the rest room in favor of a return to the relative safety of the courtroom.

  “Eight o’clock,” he reminded her. “And I would prefer that you not be late.”

  Chelsea laughed contemptuously. In a rare display of raw emotion, utterly unbecoming a member of the state bar, she flipped him her middle finger over her shoulder. He was silent, but she could tell he was watching her. She could almost feel those eyes, burrowing into her soul, undressing her from behind.

  A dress really did show up later that afternoon at her office, via courier. It was short, scandalously so, black with sequins, the sluttish party dress. She promptly tossed it in the trash. Though she certainly had the figure to carry it off, she would never give the arrogant bastard the satisfaction.

  At eight, Chelsea was at the Rouge Room in her work clothes, just to give him a piece of her mind.

  “Let’s have a drink,” he said, steering her by the elbow to a table as soon as she walked in.

  When she started right in with a string of obscenities, he put up his hand, telling her he did not like to hear that kind of language from a female. She told him exactly how much she cared about his so-called morals and furthermore, she let him know in no uncertain terms where he could get off with his self righteous, sexist attitudes.

  She expected some argument, but when he leaned forward to kiss her, she was utterly unprepared. Chelsea attributed it to shock that she didn’t pull away immediately. It was only after she felt her nipples hardening that she wrenched free and slapped him hard across the face.

  Conner smiled wryly, informing her that there were countries where a woman who behaved as she had just done could be taken over a man’s knee.

  She spat out a curse and flipped back her disheveled hair. “In outer space, maybe, but here in this country,” she countered, “a man who lays his finger or lips on a girl without her consent is liable to wind up in jail.”

  “You’re blushing,” he noted. “Does it excite you, the idea of my putting you across my knee, disciplining you with my hand as you wriggle bare assed on my lap?”

  Chelsea’s pulse was racing. Though there were people all around, she felt completely alone. Vulnerable. And aroused. “You just got yourself a harassment suit, buddy,” she hissed, pointing a finger at his well-developed chest. “And a restraining order. I hope your attorney is as good as I am.”

  John took his time in following her out the front door. Her car was in the garage across the street, below the high rise offices of Watson, Wheedle and Torrance, soon to be W, W, T and Rivers. He caught up with her right in the middle of the drab concrete structure, on level two. His hand on her arm, clamped like a vise, got her attention. By the time she’d whirled about, she had the mace out of her purse. Before she could employ it, however, he’d knocked the tiny spray bottle from her grip.

  “It’s useless to resist me, and we both know it,” he said evenly, his face contorted into that look she was already coming to dread, with the thin-lipped, dangerous-as-a-bear-trap smile.

  “The hell it ...!”

  He was on her again, pinioning both arms at her sides, lifting her face up to his. The kiss was long, hot, possessive. When his erection rose to poke her, she found herself responding, loins moist and cloying.

  “Okay,” she gasped when he finally let her go. “You win. My place or yours?”

  Conner took her hand from his crotch, knowing full well her game: a last ditch attempt to regain control by speeding the process up, far beyond his originally intended pace. “Neither one, actually.”

  “A hotel?” she whispered, trying to nuzzle his neck.

  “No.”

  The sound of his zipper was unmistakable. Thinking he wanted her against the nearest car, she began to back up, her eyes full of the devil. When he stopped her again she was genuinely puzzled.

  He simply stood there, very slowly opening his fly until she got the idea.

  Chelsea’s heart fluttered. Her eyes darted about. “You can’t be serious?” she laughed nervously.

  A few moments later, she was on her knees, his thickness engulfing her mouth. She rode him to completion, not caring about anything but how big he was and what it would feel like when he finally came, spurting to the back of her throat. She knew it would be good, like being had, used. Even now, his hand on the top of her head, petting her, the strokes light, and caressing her smooth, womanly hair. It was just enough contact so as to send electric sparks down the line from her twin nipples to her soft nether lips.

  He didn’t let her swallow but pulled out so that his hot cum splattered her cheeks and chin, droplets running down to her cleavage and staining her expensive outfit.

  “Hey,” she protested, finding her voice, “look what you’ve done!”

  Conner took her by the back of the hair, bowing her neck. “This should cover the dry cleaning,” he said, pushing a folded hundred-dollar bill down into the cleavage of her breasts. Without another word, he walked away. For the longest time, she just stayed like that on her knees. Even after she got back into her car, long after he’d disappeared into the shadows of the deserted garage, it hadn’t completely sunk in. It wasn’t until she got within sight of her apartment building that she realized the full implications. She’d just sucked a man’s cock and taken money for it. That made her a whore. A man she despised. Looking down, she saw she still had Conner’s jism all over herself.

  She did the best she could to cleanse it with a Ready Wipe.

  It was in her eyebrows, for God’s sake.

  “‘Evening Miss Rivers,” the doorman tipped his hat, pretending not to notice her appearance.

  She managed a response, making a mental note to give him an extra thousand at Christmas time. No one was in the elevator to see he
r beat red her face. It wasn’t only shame, either. It was all she could do to get inside her front door before tearing up under her skirt; never had she been so horny, so frustrated and so charged up. Plunging in with abandon, she took herself to a half dozen climaxes, the first three by hand, the latter three by vibrator.

  Afterwards, for the next hour, quite irrationally, she scrubbed at the stains on her jacket and skirt. The evidence was long gone, but her real fear was that someone might see through, to the mark he’d left on her soul. She tried to shake the feeling with a cold shower, but still, it was there, alive, stirring in her. Something dark and forbidden, something sexy and utterly overpowering. Something that told her this masturbation session she’d just enjoyed with such abandoned represented the end of an era.

  For somewhere deep in her heart, a truth was dawning.

  Chelsea’s freedom was finished. By her own will, she’d given it over to another. Never again would she have complete free play of her body. Never again would she orgasm at her own whim, thinking whatever thoughts she liked. For Chelsea belonged to another now, to a cruel, mercurial man who had staked his claim, proving his mastery by forcing her to fellate him in a damp, dank garage.

  Oh, she’d fight him. And it would be hell on them both. But in the end—in the end—they both knew what would happen. Twisted in her sheets now, soaked in sweat, hands caked with her own juices, Chelsea tossed and turned the entire night. Strange nightmares, vivid dreams and fantasies tormented her. It seemed impossible one man could do this to her, but how could she deny what was written all over her?

  Twice she woke up screaming, having dreamt herself naked and in chains, ascending an auction block, under white hot lights, the audience hidden behind a veil of smoky darkness. There was a number scrawled on her left breast, written with a grease pencil. Her feet were bare on the plywood steps and she was terrified.

  “Move it, slut,” a harsh voice calls and then she is struck by something sinister, a hissing braid that cracks across her pert buttocks sending hot fire up and down the length of her. She has to hurry and at the top a man is waiting, grinning, with a thick mustache over his lip.

  “Forget your pride,” he whispers cruelly in her ear, pulling her against his leather clad body. “I intend on making a profit from you tonight.”

  “Yes,” she hears herself say, his hand already snaking its way roughly between her legs. “Yes, master.”

  For two days afterward Conner didn’t call. She was sure he had her number, because she’d had her secretary call his office and leave a message. He really was a bastard, she decided. It was simple as that. A real man would have apologized, given her a chance to tell him properly to go to hell for what he’d done. One quickie was what he’d reduced her to, and like a chump she’d gone happily along. She blamed herself as much as him. Coming on girls’ faces was obviously his thing, the big payoff, and she’d made sure he got that right off the bat, hadn’t she?

  For two days, she seethed, watching the phone, waiting for him to call so she could inform him just what a Neanderthal piece of pond scum he was. He’d be sorry, very sorry he’d ever tangled with the likes of her. When he didn’t return a second call, she got even angrier.

  Meanwhile the dreams continued and she considered consulting a psychiatrist. She could imagine the kind of session she’d have.

  “I’m afraid to sleep, doctor.”

  “Why is that, Miss Rivers?”

  “Because whenever I slip into dreamland now, a masked man grabs me, throws me down, rips off all my clothes and has sex with me. Afterward, when I tell him he’s going to jail for rape, he just laughs at me and tells me to look at my buttocks. I do so and find there’s a brand there, the letter ‘S’ in a circle. I look up in horror; the unknown masked man is holding a whip in one hand and a leash and collar in the other. I understand instinctively my choice. Submit or be whipped. Sometimes in the dream I fight, but in the end I always go to him, crawling, my head down so he can collar me. Is this normal, doctor?”

  “I’m not sure, Miss Rivers,” the imaginary doctor leers, his eyes straining to see through my clothes, “but tell me, are you wearing any underwear today?”

  Chelsea opted to call her gynecologist instead and get something for nerves. She left the content of the dreams out of the conversation, especially the part where the masked man turns out to be Conner.

  By the sixth day, Chelsea was well past anger and into a phase of mooning, twirling pencils, staring blankly at the walls. At the water cooler and in the senior partner’s office, they started whispering. Chelsea Rivers was losing it. Her secretary even reported hearing her talk to herself while she plucked the petals of a daisy, as if she were a love-struck teenager in high school. Another week went by before the flowers came. There were four dozen red roses, with a beautiful card. Though her face was stoic, inside, her heart leaped for joy. They were from him, she was sure of it, and if the note was just right, why she might even forget his initial rudeness—chalking it up to old-fashioned lust.

  The note, however, wasn’t even close to polite. Inside the tiny white card with the red lips on it, she read:

  My Dearest Chelsea:

  I am now prepared to allow you to make amends both for spurning my gift and for behaving rudely towards me in the parking garage. Be at the Rouge at noon, sans underwear.

  --JC

  PS: I intend to spank you over the hood of my car.

  In a furious rage, she tore the card into bits and locked herself in her office. Three times that afternoon he called, and each time she had the secretary tell him to fuck himself, each time with greater stridency. Why she was afraid, she had no idea. He couldn’t possibly carry out his punishment without consent, and if she wanted to, she could even take what he’d written to the police.

  But maybe it wasn’t him she was afraid of, but herself. Who am I? she asked herself, beholding her curvy body in the mirror. Unable to resist, she peeled down her panties and proceeded to touch herself in full view of her sexy reflection. The subsequent orgasm she enjoyed did little to quench her needs. Lying down on the couch, she cried herself into a fitful sleep, not waking until well after dark.

  Connor was not waiting for her in the garage as she feared. Instead he called the senior partner of her firm the next day, promising a huge legal prize—sole representation for a multinational chaired by a close friend—all in exchange for a single date with Chelsea.

  The senior partner, Mr. Watson, called her into his office, indicating his great eagerness to sell her down the river. Mr. Wheedle was there, and Torrance, too. Be friendly, Chelsea, they fawned. Do what it takes to win him over, Chelsea. He seems like a decent chap, Chelsea. What harm could it do, Chelsea? You’re a young vital woman; couldn’t you show him a good time? Just for one teensy, weensy little night? Please, pretty please?

  Chelsea seethed. For all intents and purposes, she was being prostituted by her own colleagues. Calling them every name in the book, she threatened to quit; even composed a letter of resignation and tossed it on the old man’s desk. He just smiled when he read it, as if he knew she would never go through with it.

  In the end, she broke down and called Conner herself, waving the white flag of surrender. His instructions were brusque.

  “I’ll expect you at Donato’s at eight. Your attire will arrive by courier. You are to wear exactly what I send. No more, no less.”

  The ‘no more no less’ part sounded ominous. She was on pins and needles waiting for the package to arrive. The contents made her wish she’d saved the black party dress. In its place was a fire engine red halter mini-dress made of clingy Lycra. Barely a step ahead of spandex in the slut department, the dress bared both the whole of her back and most of her bosom. It was also cut significantly high on her shapely thighs. These were not insurmountable problems in themselves, except for the fact that there were no undergarments. No stockings, no panties, not even so much as a garter in the package; just the shoes, wispy red with two inch heels. Chelsea s
wallowed hard as he she held the little scrap of material up to the light. It would take a confident girl to wear such a thing, and without underwear, forget it. For a split second she thought of running off to Mexico. Dismissing this, she considered calling the man and asking him to let her wear something else. This seemed more futile than attempting escape, she thought grimly.

  She could imagine it now, having to humiliate herself over the phone.

  “When you say you want undergarments, to what are you referring?” he’d ask in that infuriating way of his. “Can you be more specific?”

  “Panties!” she would finally have to blurt, “May I wear panties tonight?”

  Then there’d be silence, as the words hung in the air, until finally, to seal her shame, he’d say no.

  No, Chelsea, at age twenty-seven, a mature professional woman, you may not cover your own cunt with even a scrap of material.

  Twice, she threw the wretched dress in the trash, only to retrieve it each time, her face flaming with the heat raised by imagining herself parading through the posh restaurant wearing it ... with nothing beneath! At four, she tried it on, but was so overwhelmed with how she looked that she threw a paperweight, shattering the mirror in her office bathroom. By four-thirty, in her own clothes again, she was reduced to masturbating, thinking about how hard it was going to be to keep her ass, cunt and tits covered. Wondering what exactly that bastard Conner would do to her tonight, besides bending her over a car for a spanking. When she came, despite her valiant efforts to fight it; all she could think of was herself, over his car, being spanked and fucked in the little dress that made her look like a twenty-dollar hooker.

  At six she began to practice walking, bending and sitting in the thing. It would take a lot of conscious effort, she knew, and bending, she discovered, was impossible. Crossing her legs seemed like better protection for her naked cunt, but then her thighs were badly exposed. Plus she ran the risk of the whole hem riding up to the crack of her ass. A chill went down her spine as she imagined what might happen if he insisted on dancing.