In the end, she decided to take small steps, graceful but confined and to sit with thighs pressed together, her ankles daintily crossed. She drew her blinds and waited, then, peeking out at five minute intervals, praying everyone else would go home. They did, except for the senior partner and the janitor, who took the opportunity to watch her leave, taking in the view as if it were a Christmas bonus and raise all wrapped into one.
Once she was downstairs, it took her ten minutes to work up the courage to walk past the night security guard. She’d had the hots for him for a while and had enjoyed a little game of cat and mouse, letting him drool from afar. This outfit screamed something else, though, namely, ‘available horny slut,’ and she was loath to let him see her. Time was wasting, though, so she finally went, moving as surreptitiously as the impossibly high red heels would allow her.
She wasn’t sure of his reaction, and she hadn’t time to consider it, because right outside the door were two rivals from a nearby firm. The pair of fashionably dressed women smirked openly, looking her up and down, taking their time asking useless questions just to make her squirm under their hot, contemptuous gazes. Finally she got a cab, arriving at Donato’s only two minutes late.
“Keep the change,” she told the driver.
“Thanks,” leered the cabbie, not even looking at the twenty he’d handed her. His eyes stayed glued to her behind as she got out, just as they had been to her overspilling tits in the rear view on the way over. Twice she’d had to adjust herself as the dress rode up high enough for her to feel the sticky, cracked leather on the lower part of her ass cheeks. As it was, she’d had to have in on her thighs the sweat building disgustingly.
Conner was already seated, eying his watch. He wore a charcoal suit with blue silk shirt and gray silk tie. If possible, he looked even more devastatingly handsome than the last time she’d seen him.
“I’m disappointed,” he told her. “I’m seriously considering putting you over my knee before we eat.”
He didn’t look to be kidding, and even if he was, he was still the biggest asshole she’d ever had the displeasure of meeting. “Look, Conner,” she grimaced. “I’m only here because you bribed my firm. Now how about if we drop the whole ‘relationship’ pretense and just try to get through the night without talking, huh?”
Smiling thinly, he signaled for the waiter. Noting that he was not going to get up to help her sit, Chelsea did it herself, gingerly setting her nearly naked buttocks down on the crushed velvet seat. The material tickled the backs of her legs. Squeezing her thighs as tight as she could, she prayed for the night to pass quickly.
“What do you recommend to enhance lovemaking?” he asked the lanky young man who seemed to find it impossible to keep his eyes off Chelsea’s exposed cleavage.
“Um, I really couldn’t say, sir,” he coughed.
“She’s quite good, you know.”
“Excuse me?” the waiter stammered.
“The young lady,” Conner said nonchalantly. “You’re wondering what that mouth of hers would feel like on your prick. Actually, it’s like warm velvet.”
Beads of sweat formed on the waiter’s forehead. “Your order, sir, please?”
Conner rattled off a number of high priced selections and handed him back the leather-covered menu. Gratefully, the man dove for the kitchen.
“Your nipples are showing through,” Conner observed after the young man had left. “As are your claws.”
Chelsea looked down and realized her long fingernails were digging into the tablecloth. She supposed it was shock; could he really have just said that? And why, mixed with her fury was there definite arousal, enough to tent her sensitive nipples under her whore’s dress?
She should get up, she thought to herself, she should run and not look back.
“I’m not afraid of you,” she said flatly. “I won’t be intimidated. If I have to, I’ll use these claws to scratch out your eyes.”
The waiter was back, hands trembling as he poured out the champagne.
“I wouldn’t allow that,” Conner replied, taking a sip after the young man had left. “But I am afraid you might scratch some other part of me later when we’re making love.”
“Over my dead body,” she stormed.
Conner shook his head. “I’m sorry, my dear, necrophilia is one of the few variations that I don’t practice. I hope you won’t hold that against me, especially since there are so many other things we could try. Tell me, Chelsea, have you ever been dominated by a man; made to submit to him totally? Is that something you dream of when you shove your hands in that imperial cunt of yours?”
Chelsea splashed the champagne in his face. “Does that give you a clue?”
Conner chuckled, retrieving his napkin from his lap. “Forgive me, perhaps I overstepped my bounds.”
“Is there a problem?” asked the suddenly hovering maitre d’.
“Not at all, my good man.” Pulling several folded bills from his wallet and discreetly slipping them into the man’s palm he rattled off an explanation in French. Several times the maitre d’ looked at Chelsea, each time with greater contempt than the last.
“What did you tell him?” Chelsea demanded when he’d sauntered off, nose in the air.
Conner shrugged. “I simply covered for your rudeness.”
Chelsea snorted. “By telling him I was a whore, you mean? Or didn’t you think I knew that much French?”
He laughed, this time quite warmly, though for her part this conversation was at an end.
“I’m out of here,” she announced, throwing her napkin onto the table. “You are obviously insane; I don’t care how much business you can bring our firm.”
He waited until she was on her feet. “Sit down, Chelsea.”
She snorted at him. “And why the hell should I listen to you? Just give me one good reason why!”
“Because I told you to.” His voice was whisky-thick, level, and barely above a whisper.
A rush of heat flooded Chelsea’s center. The way he’d said the words, the way he looked at her, like he’d make her, like she had no choice, made her weak all over.”
“I hate you,” she told him, nevertheless resuming her seat.
Conner smiled slyly, raising a toast. “To hate, then. The greatest aphrodisiac in the world.”
Stone-faced, she forced herself to touch her glass to his. One dinner, she told herself; that’s all she had to get through.
By the second course, an icy silence had settled over the table. When she got up to go to the bathroom, he told her to sit back down. Ignoring her entreaties, he made her wait until dessert. Chelsea fumed as she stabbed violently and sulkily at her mousse. It was like being a little girl at the table of her psychotic father. Only she wasn’t little, and even if she were, Conner was hardly paternal material.
“You’d enjoy licking that off my cock, wouldn’t you?” he observed watching her eat the white mousse, topped with razor thin slices of strawberry.
Chelsea rubbed her moist thighs. She needed to pee so bad, but she would not beg to be excused. “Actually, Conner, what I would enjoy is cutting your cock off with a rusty saw.”
He made her suffer until the mousse was gone. When he finally let her get up, she spat sarcastically, “Oh, thank you, your majesty.”
Conner kept on smiling, all the way out the door.
“Is there a good place to go around here for sex?” he asked the valet casually as he pulled up with the cream-colored Mercedes coupe a little while later.
Drool collected in the corner of the boy’s mouth. Trying not to look at the scantily clad hottie, he mumbled something about a hotel down the road.
“No, I mean somewhere outside,” Conner persisted, taking Chelsea’s arm. “Somewhere natural.” He pulled the stiff, mortified woman closer. “I think you can understand my desire?”
“Absolutely, sir,” the valet licked his lips, following Conner’s implied invitation to look his date over like a leg of lamb. “What about the pa
rk?”
Conner leaned in to the young man’s ear, lowering his voice, but not enough to spare Chelsea the hearing of it. “Is it remote, because my girlfriend is a real screamer.”
The boy swallowed, his eyes swimming in fantasies of trying her out for himself. Meanwhile, it was all she could do to cover herself from the eyes, which were seeing far more than she was willing to tolerate.
The two men tittered back and forth a little longer, the boy talking about his own girlfriend and growing bold enough to ask Conner if Chelsea was as good as she looked. Chelsea was just hoping somehow it was all a dream.
Where, she wondered, was her own car and why hadn’t they brought it around?
Conner grinned, slapping the kid on the back. “What time do you get off? Maybe you can try her yourself.”
The boy, who was probably a virgin despite his bragging, shot a terrified glance in her direction, to which Conner responded with collegial laughter. “I bet you don’t have time for an old lady like her, though, do you? Not when you have so much young tail at your beck and call.”
There was nervous laughter, and then the boy handed over the keys.
“Seriously, though,” said Conner. “Why don’t you touch her? The tits look extraordinary, don’t they?”
Chelsea moved to jump back, but he held her arm firm. “You will let him, won’t you, my dear?”
“I—I couldn’t,” the boy shook his head.
“Just a momentary touch. Chelsea, thrust out your breasts for him.”
It was all she could do to stand upright. Leaning heavily on Conner, she did as she was told, arching her back, displaying herself like the whore he’d made her out to be.
“Jeezuz,” the kid muttered, looking over both shoulders to make sure no one was watching. “I really can’t.”
But he did. With both hands. Tentative at first, but under Conner’s encouragement, he squeezed harder and harder. Hard enough in the end to draw a small, openmouthed moan from the sexy young woman.
“Are you in college?” Conner asked him.
Eyes glazed, still mauling, he said, “Yes, sir.”
Conner nodded and handed him a business card. “Look me up when you graduate. I could use young men like you in my organization.”
Expertly now, he steered Chelsea to the passenger side and sat her down in the vintage roadster.
“But sir,” the young man called out as Conner hopped in the driver’s seat and put the car in gear. “What kind of business are you in?”
He cast a large grin. “White slavery,” he replied with a wink.
Conner peeled out and a block later he unzipped his fly announcing, rather unceremoniously. “Showtime, Chelsea. Time to get me warmed up.”
Chelsea felt numb all over. Most of her was still back at the restaurant, trying to make sense of what had just transpired. She’d left her car behind. She’d been groped by a boy barely eighteen, at the behest of the man who was supposed to be her date. A man who’d just announced his business was white slavery. The buying and selling of young women.
He was joking, wasn’t he? She’d seen documentaries about such things. Foreign girls in big cities kidnapped and used for sex toys, kept prisoner in hotels and brothels. It was horrible; the girls had no choice and if they disobeyed or tried to escape, they were beaten. But those things were done by gangsters, weren’t they? Not by handsome, suave men, albeit a rude and crass one like John Conner.
Conner’s hand descended on her, wedging apart her legs and taking hold of her in a way that brooked no further arguments. “I gave you an order, Chelsea. I expect it to be obeyed.”
She gave a helpless little sigh as he flicked a nail over her clit. Wishing she’d taken one of the many chances she had to bolt, Chelsea lowered her head gingerly to Conner’s lap. Releasing her crotch, he wiped the copious moisture on the back of her bobbing head, using her long, silky hair. He had her suck him all the way out of the city. When the car finally stopped, it was at a house so remote, there were no lights for miles.
“Up,” he said, slapping her bare thigh.
“I despise you,” she told him, hiding fear laced with need as she took in her new surroundings.
“Don’t worry; it’s perfectly safe here,” he assured her, rubbing his hand over her cheek. “You’ll see by morning, things will look totally different.”
“Like hell,” she spat, resisting the urge to bite off his fingers.
Conner seized her now, firmly and efficiently by the hair. Pulling her out the driver’s side, he bent her over the hood. “This has been a long time in coming,” he announced, pulling the back of the dress up to her waist.
Chelsea groaned as his hand descended on her unprotected buttocks. Putting her hands on the still warm metal, she tried to figure out why she wasn’t fighting. Why she was taking this, needing it even.
He spanked her a total of twelve times. Her bottom was warm to the touch now, red and throbbing. As he pulled her up, they both noticed how she’d dripped on the hood of the Mercedes.
“So,” he mused, leading her back to the passenger side. “You’re a female after all.”
Chelsea was docile now, strangely calmed. As a precaution, however, Conner pulled handcuffs from the glove box and locked her hands behind her back. It shamed her how easily he’d done this and how she’d offered up no resistance.
“I don’t want you running away,” he explained as he led her stumbling up the walkway, like she was some kind of prisoner. When she lost a shoe, he told her he’d fetch it in the daylight. That made her scared all over again, like maybe she wouldn’t live that long.
The contents of the house were layered with dust, like a ruined museum. Not bothering with any lights, he led her right to the basement. The stairs creaked and she could feel the wafting dampness, along with a strong musty smell. Terror began to grip her in earnest.
“Modifications have been made down here,” he said, flipping a switch on the wall.
Chelsea gasped. ‘Modifications,’ was an understatement. What Conner had down here resembled more closely a medieval torture chamber than a rural cellar.
“This is disgusting,” she exclaimed, her eyes flitting across the well-stocked dungeon from out of a fairy tale. “You can’t possibly keep me here.”
He gave her a few moments to absorb it all. The stone walls and floors. The shackles hanging from the ceiling, the racks laden with whips, paddles and other instruments of sweet torture. The rack, designed to stretch, spread and immobilize. And the headgear, hoods and gags of every type. There was even a cage, hanging from the ceiling in which a person, presumably, could be confined.
Chelsea’s pulse raced, her heart pounded. She wasn’t really disgusted, though, she was aroused. “You can’t possibly keep me here,” she repeated.
Conner released the handcuffs. “Take your clothes off, Chelsea, and we’ll find out.”
The instant she was free, Chelsea made her move. It had been tough to find the time each week for karate, but was she ever so glad now she’d stuck with it. He hadn’t seen the attack coming, and she had him on his knees in agony in five seconds flat. The kick to the solar plexus combined with one to the crotch was a devastating combination. For insurance, she locked one of his wrists in the cuff and secured the other end to the arm of a large, solid looking strap-fitted chair that was conveniently bolted to the floor.
She was home free, until at the door to his car, she realized she didn’t have the keys. Cursing her short sightedness, she went back down after them. It should be no problem, she thought to pick his pockets; he was, after all, a helpless prisoner.
When she descended the stairs, however, she discovered a nasty surprise. Conner was gone. The handcuffs were, too, which meant he’d somehow freed them from the chair leg. Chelsea backed slowly to the door. How did he escape, where could he have gone?
The answer was quick in coming. Conner had been behind the door, and now he grabbed and pinned her from behind. In short order, she was down on the flo
or and her squirming only made it easier for him to strip her naked.
He found her resistance to be extraordinary for a female, but he was a strong and patient man. By dawn, Chelsea Rivers had learned the meaning of obedience. In place of the smug, arrogant barrister, was a vibrant, humble, eager-to-please female, one with a healthy sense of fear and reverence for the whip, not to mention for her new master. She would wear the night’s stripes for many days to come, though he’d been careful to mark her only in the most easily hidden areas of her body.
Her pleas for mercy had not been heeded until long past her breaking point. It was not a matter of revenge or personal emotion. Conner was a trainer, no more no less. Inside of Chelsea was a slave wench, a bundle of raw, sensual need: cunt, tits and ass begging to be tamed. When he’d finally let her orgasm, she’d screamed out her submission.
Now she was little more than a sleek female animal and though she’d beg to be kept in Conner’s own chains and under his disciplinary whip, she would eventually be sold to the highest bidder, at an auction in some dark and hidden room.
How remote, how unreal, then, would seem her old ways, her old self. Where once she feared and envied men, now she would adore them and seek them out, knowing that in her own obedience to them would come her fulfillment as a person.
As dawn broke over the secret slaver’s house, Chelsea saw that Conner was right. He’d predicted things would look very different, to her, and so they did. As soon as he released her wrists from the dangling chains that had confined her for the last several hours, she fell to her hands and knees, to kiss his feet. Later, as they returned to the car, she stayed in this position, crawling naked—not to the passenger door, but to the trunk.
Covering her tingling, sexually spent body with a blanket, Conner closed her in for the ride home. Over the next few days, Chelsea would have much work to do. First she would have to apologize to the senior partners for her earlier arrogance in wanting to refuse a date with Conner. As a show of good faith, she would fuck the partners, and any other males whom she’d in any way offended previously. This accomplished, she would tender her resignation, finalize her affairs and turn over all her assets to charity. Lastly, she would tend to her personal belongings, readying herself to enter in perfect nakedness and poverty into her actual training program.
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