6 comments/  94382 views/  20 favorites

Take Only as Directed Ch. 01

By: penfrock



Do you know how sheep get lost?

One nibble at a time.

That's exactly how it happened to me. My name's Janie. I was 24 at the time. I got myself into debt with my credit cards. It was my fault, I'll admit it. I wasn't careful. Before I knew it, I was in over my head.

It's the same, sad song plenty of others have sung in this crazy country. What was different in my case was the change in bankruptcy laws that took effect the year before, in 2028. No more bankruptcies for individuals, the government said. Only for corporations.

With the privatization of prisons, and the re-establishment of debtor's prisons at around that time, it sure looked like I'd run out of choices. I was sure some filthy, scummy prison had to be in my future. I had visions of sharing a cell with some musclebound dyke who would sit on my face every night as she fucked my asshole with her chubby fingers. Not my idea of a good time (though if it's yours, don't worry - I won't judge).

When you're afraid you've got no more choices, and a stranger appears out of the blue to offer you one, what do you do? You take it.

My savior, it seemed, was Mrs. Lockhart. My overworked legal-services lawyer introduced her a few days before I was scheduled to go to trial.

Mrs. Lockhart was all business. She looked like some high-priced corporate lawyer in her tailored gray suit. She was tall, blond-haired and gorgeous. What really stood out about her, though, was her high-heeled designer shoes. I would have called them "fuck me" pumps.

Turns out, it wasn't Mrs. Lockhart who was about to get fucked -- big time. But, how could I have known that?

Mrs. Lockhart told me she was working for a pilot program, an alternative to traditional incarceration. Her company, a government contractor, was looking for females in their twenties and early thirties to volunteer for a new kind of pre-trial intervention program. Young women like me could work off their debt by hiring themselves out as domestic servants to rich people.

No prison. Wow. I'd be willing to push a vacuum cleaner for a couple years to avoid that.

I'm interested, I said. Tell me more.

Just come with me to the information session, said Mrs. Lockhart. She laid a form on the table. Just sign here, it's a standard release. I signed without reading the small print.

Big mistake.

Next thing I knew, I was sitting in a van with tinted windows, along with four other women about my own age. Mrs. Lockhart was in the front seat, along with the driver. They were separated from us by a think, plastic partition like they have in taxicabs. It was only then that I noticed the doors had no handles on the inside.

Not good.

We drove for a couple hours, way out into the country. We pulled up at a gate in a chain-link fence topped with razor wire. The driver flashed some kind of pass at a bar-code reader. The gate slid open automatically, then closed behind us.

Really not good.

We pulled up at a low, cinderblock building with very small windows, way up high. We got out. Another bar-code reader, another automatic door closing behind us.

Next thing I knew, our little group of five had been ushered into a small auditorium, joining about a dozen other women, all in their twenties or early thirties. Unlike the plain, run-down exterior of the building, this room was all rich-looking wood paneling and very comfortable seats.

Mrs. Lockhart walked up on stage in her fuck-you pumps. She pulled out some kind of remote, pushed a button, and a screen rose up from the floor behind her with a soft, whirring sound.

"Welcome, ladies," she said, showing brilliant white teeth behind her tight-lipped smile. It might as well have been a Mary Kay sales meeting. "You are at a corporate retreat center owned by my employer, the Halliburton Corporation. As you may know, we are a government contractor. In 2026, through a series of mergers and acquisitions, we became the largest contractor operating prisons for the government."

Mrs. Lockhart pushed a button on her remote. The lights dimmed and our seats automatically reclined like we were in some amusement-park ride. A video lit the screen.

A Halliburton logo appeared before us, then the words, "Distributed Incarceration: Better Corrections Through Chemistry."

The short video was all about the overcrowding in the prison system. It told how Halliburton had been awarded a government contract to farm out inmates to private citizens, who would pay for the cost of their incarceration in exchange for "personal services." The video showed a silver-haired business-executive type, accepting a glass of whisky off a silver tray, held by a very good-looking young woman dressed sort of like a first-class flight attendant. I did notice she had really big boobs, and was showing a good bit of cleavage.

The lights came back up, and a ditzy blonde in the front row put up her hand. Mrs. Lockhart looked annoyed. "Yes?"

"There's something I don't understand, Mrs. Lockhart. Why are you showing us a video about inmates, when we haven't even gone to trial yet?"

Mrs. Lockhart's voice was all sweetness and light, but the meaning of her words was anything but. "My dear, the release form you signed has the legal force of a guilty plea. As far as the law is concerned, you already are an inmate. Halliburton is certain you will all prefer the choice you have just made, and that you will enter the Distributed Incarceration pilot program. In the event you think otherwise, we are willing to consider your request that the court transfer you to a more traditional prison."

"Shit," I heard the woman next to me whisper under her breath. "We already signed up for this place, and didn't even know it."

My mind raced on to consider the choice that was now before me. Posh auditorium seats and track lighting, on the one hand. Or Spike, the iron-pumping lesbian-linebacker cellmate, on the other. Which one to choose? I had a sudden vision of Spike perched on the edge of the stainless-steel toilet, beckoning me with a tattooed finger: "Aw, come on over here, Sugar, your tongue is so much better at cleaning off my soggy cunt-hairs than toilet paper."

The choice seemed obvious, even if Mrs. Lockhart had been underhanded in getting us to sign that form.

Turned out, when it came to underhandedness, we didn't know the half of it.

I remember sitting in a small, windowless interview room -- no handle on the inside of the door -- waiting for Mrs. Lockhart to come in and "process" me. I felt really, really tired all of a sudden. "What's that strange smell in this room?" I thought to myself, even as I lay my head down on my forearm and drifted off to sleep.

I woke up feeling groggy, in a hospital bed, in another windowless room. No handle on the inside of that door, either, of course.

There was a TV and a remote. I reached out and clicked it. Mrs. Lockhart was on the TV. On every channel.

"Greetings, Distributed Incarcerations pilot program volunteer. You have just undergone a medical procedure to implant Halliburton's patented medication mini-pump into your upper chest."

I reached up and felt around the base of my neck. My fingers touched surgical sutures at a spot near my collarbone.

"The tiny, implanted pump releases small amounts of medication into your body on a continuous basis. The effect of this medication is to cause steadily increasing waves of nausea and general malaise. This will become disabling in time, if not headed off by a counter-dose of medication administered by your host. You will need this rescue dose approximately every 48 hours, before the symptoms start to manifest themselves."

"Shit," I thought to myself. "This thing is moving way faster than I could imagine."

Mrs. Lockhart's face continued to smile back at me from the TV. "You can think of this system as a chemical version of an electronic ankle-bracelet. Some have described it as a 21st century chain gang, but without the chains. Unless, of course, chains turn you on -- or have the same effect on your host." (Did Talking Lockhart-head on the screen just wink at me?)

"This innovative program," she continued, "takes inmates out of the prison system and places them in private homes. The convicts work as something like domestic servants. They perform personal services for the host until their debt to society is paid. In exchange, the host agrees to provide the prisoner with room and board. For services rendered, as it were."

Mrs. Lockhart's talking head was replaced by a cartoon diagram of a woman's naked upper chest, with an arrow pointing to the spot near the collarbone where I'd just felt those sutures. It didn't escape my attention that Cartoon Woman had extremely large, perfectly-proportioned breasts.

"The drug released by the mini-pump is a unique chemical match to the drug the host will administer at least once every 48 hours. As long as the dose is administered within the time frame, the program participant will feel normal. If the dose is delayed, the unpleasant symptoms will insure that the participant does not stray far from the host."

Next, a cartoon image of a naked man appeared on the screen. He was sporting a rather large erection.

Suddenly, I could see where this was going. "Oh -- my -- God," I whispered to myself, very slowly.

"The host takes a daily pill orally, that transforms his body into a medication-delivery system. The medication collects in his prostate gland, and, prior to ejaculation, mingles with his semen. It is absorbed into the program participant's body through one of three portals: her mouth, her vagina or her rectum. The choice of which portal to use is up to the host."

"Fuck," I whispered to myself -- instantly realizing how oddly appropriate was my choice of expletive.

"There are two more ingredients in this innovative medication cocktail," Mrs. Lockhart continued, her image now restored to the screen in a full-body version. She was dressed, now, in a lab coat, but still wearing her fuck-you pumps. "A mildly narcotic additive creates a feeling of well-being. A second additive is a highly-effective oral contraceptive."

The Halliburton corporate logo appeared on the screen. "The Distributed Corrections system, by Halliburton: better incarceration through chemistry."

The TV clicked off. A few hours later, a male orderly appeared and delivered a tray of food. I tried to get him to talk to me, but he said nothing.

A nurse appeared at intervals and checked my vitals. She had nothing to say, and didn't respond to my questions. I wondered if she even spoke English.

A day passed, then another -- and, let me tell you, everything that video promised about horrendous side-effects began to come true. The nausea grew worse by the hour. I began to get some really weird hallucinations: insects crawling on my skin, truly psycho stuff. God, I wanted that awful feeling to go away. 

After several hours of agony, the door to my room abruptly opened. A middle-aged man in a lab coat entered. "You must be Janie," said he, in an expressionless voice.

"That would be me," I whispered through gritted teeth, feeling like I was about to puke my guts out.

"We regret having to put you through the withdrawal symptoms," he explained, "but it's part of the protocol. You need to experience what withdrawal feels like, so you'll be properly motivated to cooperate with the program requirements. You will be relieved to know I've been dosed with the oral medication unique to your treatment plan. I am prepared to administer your rescue dose. Please stand up and remove your hospital gown."

I had only one thing on my mind, and that was making that terrible feeling go away. I felt oddly detached from my own self as I stood beside the bed and loosened the cloth tie behind my neck. I shrugged and shimmied, watching the flimsy gown puddle around my ankles. There I stood, in all my bare-naked glory.

Without thinking, I let my hand drift in front of me, discretely covering my thick brown patch of pussy-hair. Then I realized the absurdity of the gesture. No point in covering up what the Halliburton Corporation already owned. I let my hand drift back to my side.

"Good girl," said Mr. Technician.

I watched as he unbuttoned his lab coat and let it fall to the floor. Only then did I realize that fucker wasn't wearing anything underneath. He was fifty-something, with an immensely hairy body and a pot-belly. A pair of half-glasses perched on the end of his nose.

I'll bet he thought the sex-gods were smiling on him when he landed this job.

He sat on the edge of my bed, absentmindedly playing with himself, coaxing his equipment into a semi-hard state. "Kneel," he ordered, pointing to the patch of floor between his feet. "Be a good little girl, open wide and say 'Ah.'"

I did as he commanded. His short, thick cock was pointed directly at my face. A shiny droplet was hanging from the softly puckered slit. God, I wanted to taste that pre-cum more than anything in the world.

I stuck out my tongue and licked the drop up, smacking my lips to let him know I wanted more. Then, slowly and deliberately, I swirled my tongue around the cockhead, before opening wide and devouring his entire shaft. I haven't exactly been Ms. Party Girl in the past, but I have had a social life. One thing I've learned is how to keep on taking it, inch by inch, until my lips are pressed up against the guy's pubes.

I don't think H. Wellington Science-Nerd was expecting that. His gasp of pleasure, followed by his grunts and heavy breathing, confirmed it.

It didn't take him long. When the thick wad of his cum hit the back of my throat, I swallowed every drop. Who was I to let a good drug-hit go to waste?

Almost immediately, a glowing warmth suffused my body. All symptoms of nausea ceased and I was struck by a feeling of well-being. I licked the sticky cum from each of my fingers, one by one. I looked up at him and flashed a mischievous little smile. "I forgot to ask your name."

"The protocol suggests you address me as 'Master.'"

"Thank you, Master," said I.

And I meant it.

To be continued...

Take Only as Directed Ch. 02



This story takes place in the year 2029. America is a very different place. New laws have abolished personal bankruptcies and debtors' prisons have been revived. Janie, our twentysomething heroine, was about to be sentenced to just such a prison when she was tricked into signing up for a pilot program that keeps her in a kind of chemical captivity. Medicine released within her body causes debilitating nausea and other symptoms every 48 hours, unless she is administered a rescue dose of another medicine. When she graduates from the training center, she will be farmed out to live in the home of a wealthy man, who will take a daily pill that converts his semen into the rescue dose Janie needs. 

***

"That was nicely done," said the technician I'd just sucked off, after he'd regained his composure. "I can see you have a natural talent for this." Picking up his tablet computer, he punched in some numbers, then pulled on his lab coat and left the room.

I lay back on the bed, relishing the warm glow of the medicine the tech had just ejaculated down my throat. "Good God, why do I feel so turned on?" I asked myself. Of their own accord, my fingers drifted down to my thick, black bush. They found the impertinent little button of my clit. Pressing downward and deeper into the thick patch, I realized I was positively dripping.

Then, I remembered what I'd learned in the briefing. The rescue-dose chemical cocktail includes not just the antidote, but also a pleasure-inducing drug. "Three days into this program, and I already feel like some kind of junkie," I mused.

Just then, the door opened and a female technician came into the room. She was unfazed by the sight of me lying there spreadeagled, fingers in my crotch. She even seemed to expect it. "My, my, aren't we a fast learner?"

The tech picked up my hospital gown from the floor. "You're not going to be needing this any more," she explained. "You're already wearing the training-center uniform: or, should I say, the undress uniform."

"But the only thing I've got on is my birthday suit."

"Exactly. That's the uniform, sweetie. There's just one other thing you need."

She handed me a shoebox. I opened it and pulled out a pair of shiny black pumps.

"We measured your feet while you were still unconscious. This pair should fit you perfectly. For the duration of your time in the training center, you and the other trainees will remain nude, except for shoes like these. After you graduate and are assigned to a host, he'll decide what, if anything, you're going to wear around the house. During training, we give you the experience of being naked in the presence of others, just in case. Take my advice: if you're like most of our clients, you'll need lots of practice walking in high-heeled shoes like these. So keep 'em on at all times. They're good for toning the butt-cheeks, you know."

She made for the door and waved her ID card in front of a bar-code reader. As it opened before her, she called back over her shoulder: "You can relax for now, but as soon as you hear the bell, step out into the hallway and make your way down to the conference room. And don't forget those pumps."

It wasn't an hour later before I heard a doorbell-like tone. The locked door to my room swung open of its own accord.

I'd been walking up and down in the pumps, from one end of my room to the other, to try to get the hang of them. It was now or never.

It felt weird stepping out into the hallway, buck naked. Ahead of me, teetering along in her own pair of high heels, was a tall black woman. I could see her ample butt-cheeks swaying first right, then left, as she tried to get the hang of the shoes.

"Damn!" said she. "Walking in these is harder than it looks."

"I'm no expert, either," said I. "I'm Janie."

"LaToya," said she, giving my right hand a squeeze in return. She whispered, "You have any idea they were taking you to this place?"

"Not a hint of it. They never asked."

"I should've remembered that from my time in the Army. Never trust anything a recruiter tells you, and don't sign anything without reading it."

"Too late now."

"True, dat."

Turning the corner, LaToya and I came to the conference room. A dozen padded chairs, arranged in a circle, with no conference table. Just two chairs remained. She and I were last in, so we sat our naked butt-cheeks down, and looked silently into the eyes of each of the other women, in turn. Every emotion was reflected in those eyes, from terror to anger to curiosity.

Then, a familiar face. Ms. Lockhart came into the room, dressed in another of her tailored business suits. She was the only one wearing clothes.

"By now, you ladies realize what you've signed on for. The fact that you're here at all, looking and feeling so perky, means you not only let one of our male technicians come in your mouth, but you swallowed his load."

We looked around at each other, then looked away, embarrassed.

"Nicely done. That's the sort of compliance we're looking for."

"But, you can't do this to us!" sputtered a woman with long, wavy red hair and freckles all over her body. "It's against our constitutional rights. I'll have you know I'm an attorney, and..."

"Were an attorney, Lisa," corrected Mrs. Lockhart. "Maybe, in a few years, when you've completed your program and have paid back your shamefully large credit-card debt, you'll be an attorney again. But for the foreseeable future, that pert little body of yours belongs to the man who's going to pay for the privilege of administering your medication. Cute boobs, by the way. I like the freckled look." (Was that a hint of more than detached, professional interest in Ms. Lockhart's eye?)

"This is no better than slavery," muttered LaToya.

"Now, let's not be crass, my dear," said Ms. Lockhart. "Such an old-fashioned way of looking at it! This is 2029, after all. You girls made the bad choices that got you to this place, and the society you've maligned is giving you one last chance to rectify your mistakes."

"You all have an asset certain wealthy, powerful men are eager to have." Ms. Lockhart looked slowly at Lisa's body, giving her the once- and even twice-over. "And a very impressive one, at that. You've all maintained that asset admirably. These men have chosen to deploy a small part of their personal fortunes to pay off your debt to society. They're subsidizing an overcrowded prison system, and you get to live in a beachfront mansion or an elegant town house instead of a prison cell. It's an arrangement that's mutually beneficial to all parties. Think of it as the 21st-century version of indentured servitude -- or maybe concubinage is the better term. For the duration of your sentence, you are 21st century concubines. It's the revival and repurposing of an ancient, time-honored tradition in human history."

"Do we have any say at all about who we work for?" asked a willowy blonde.

"I'm afraid not, my dear. It's the other way around. Your prospective master will first observe you through the one-way glass windows here at the training center. If he likes what he sees, he'll send a message to come sit down with him for an interview. If that goes well, he'll have you brought to one of our small, on-site apartments, and you'll spend some more personal time with him: however long he needs to make up his mind."

"Where it may go from there is entirely his decision -- based on how well you see to his needs and desires, large and small. I can't impress on you enough the importance of adopting an attitude of perfect subservience, and anticipating his needs before he asks."

"We have a constant flow of women into and out of the training center, and only have so many beds. If, after thirty days, you've gone unselected, we'll remove the medicine pump and transfer you to the general prison population. There, as I'm sure you're aware, there are some rather assertive inmates who will insist on making their own proprietary arrangements with you." A knowing look. And a smirk.

"If it should happen that your master grows weary of you, he has the privilege of arranging with another client to swap you for his own personal assistant. Or, he can simply return you to the training center for the cost of a processing fee."

There was a soft moan from Lisa, whose eyes took on the appearance of a hunted animal. She glanced around from one of us to the other, gauging our reactions, seeing if we seemed to think our predicament as intolerable as she did.

"I can assure you, my dear" -- said Ms. Lockhart, reading her mind -- "that you will find this proposal far more pleasant than the alternative. You may think you don't want to service your master's needs, but remember, you've just had the rescue dose of your medication renewed. You're feeling pretty good now. Just think about how you felt around this time yesterday. Savor that memory. Do that, and, believe me, you'll be bending over and letting him fuck your tight little asshole -- if that's what makes him happy -- without giving it a second thought. The other women who've passed through the training center report that the sex becomes associated in their minds with receiving the rescue dose, along with its associated pleasure-drugs. They end up quite looking forward to it."

"It's an ingenious concept, this chemical incarceration" Ms. Lockhart went on. She leaned in confidentially: "The politicians just love it! Not since marijuana was legalized have they found such a promising new vice to tax. Our corrections contractors are all wealthy men. They can more than afford the high participant fees. To them, renting their genitalia to the state for a drug-delivery system isn't exactly hardship duty."

I had the distinct feeling that, as she said this, Ms. Lockhart was staring at my tits. Did I just see her lick her lips?

"Concubines!" muttered Lisa, in disgust. "I don't care what they call it, it's still a form of slavery." She looked around at the rest of us, as though she were the litigator and we the jury. A barenaked jury. "She's telling us the only way we can stay out of prison is by signing on as sex slaves to some rich pervert, who gets his jollies by pumping his spunk into us every couple of days."

"You could choose to look at it that way," responded Ms. Lockhart, coolly. Then, she brightened and flashed Lisa a brilliant smile. "Or, you could think of it as a smart way to avoid the alternative. From what I know of our understaffed, underfunded prison system, as soon as a piece of fresh meat like you stumbles out of the reception area with that deer-in-the-headlights look on her face, the other inmates -- the ones with the skull tattoos and ripped muscles and flat-top haircuts -- start elbowing one another out of the way. They want to find out which one of them's going to savor the privilege of having you -- yes, you, Ms. Attorney-At-Law -- kneel down every day and call her 'Mommy' while she's sitting on the crapper, as you offer her the use of your tongue in lieu of toilet paper."

That shut Lisa up. Lockhart was right. The thought of spending most of the next few years buck-naked, pinned beneath some sweaty, sadistic female iron-pumper, didn't appeal to any of us. (From the delight with which she savored the details of that scenario, though, Ms. Lockhart may have had a different view.)

Which is why, when Ms. Lockhart asked us each, in turn, if we would agree to move on to the next step without resistance, every last one of us nodded our assent. Yes, we would be pleased to take the shareholders of Halliburton, Inc. up on their kind offer.

"Don't think you'll just be sitting around on your cute little asses for the next several weeks, doing your nails," Ms. Lockart went on. "Your days -- and especially your nights -- will be full. We have much to teach you. Pay close attention, because the quicker you learn, the less likely you'll be to reach the end of your thirty days without having found a master to take you home with him. Now, get up and step into the next room, please."

We found ourselves in a room resembling an operating-room theater in a teaching hospital. Vinyl-covered seats were arrayed in tiers above a lower-level area where the demonstration activities -- whatever they might be -- would take place. The surgical gurney one might have expected to see in such a setting had been replaced by a king-sized bed.

"Janie," said Ms. Lockhart, indicating me. "Front and center. You're about to meet Dennis, one of our instructors."

A small door opened, and a six-foot-tall, heavily muscled African-American man with very dark skin and very white teeth came in, wearing a bathrobe. He let the robe drop to the floor. Between his muscular thighs was hanging one of the largest, thickest male sausages I'd ever seen.

"Janie, in a moment Dennis will kindly offer some of his bodily fluid to you. All you need to do is coax it out of that impressive dong of his. In case you're wondering how we came to choose you as our first demonstration subject, it's because, as we've watched you through the one-way glass, you've already impressed us with your natural talent for masturbating. Climb up on the bed, now, spread your legs wide and demonstrate for Dennis and the rest of us how it's done."

To be continued...



Take Only as Directed Ch. 03



This story takes place in the year 2029. America is a very different place. New laws have abolished personal bankruptcies and debtors' prisons have been revived. Janie, our twentysomething heroine, was about to be sentenced to just such a prison when she was tricked into signing up for a pilot program that keeps her in a kind of chemical captivity. Medicine released within her body causes debilitating nausea and other symptoms every 48 hours, unless she is administered a rescue dose of another medicine. The rescue dose is delivered through the ejaculation of the man for whom she will be a personal domestic servant, a latter-day concubine. Janie's training in the art of being a high-class, government-sanctioned sex worker continues...

***

Was it the effect of the medicine coursing through my bloodstream, or was it some hypnotic quality to Ms. Lockhart's voice? When I heard her instruct me to get up, lay back on the bed in the center of the small auditorium/lecture-theater, and start masturbating, I felt a rush of damp desire well up behind my short hairs – whose tangled, fragrant jungle was now on full display before all my fellow concubines-in-training.

Dennis, the muscular, naked black man who had just come into the room and peeled off his bathrobe, extended his massive hand to me, and I placed my dainty little hand inside his. Pulling me over to the bed, he gently pushed my butt down onto the mattress, lightly tracing his lips over one of my nipples as he did so. I shivered in an electric sort of way.

He arranged the pillows to form a small mountain of goose down and high-thread-count pillowcases up against the headboard. Then, still holding onto my hand, he let me down slowly, allowing me to sink deep into the soft pile. Kissing my fingertips one by one, he half-whispered, half-spoke in his deeply resonant, Caribbean-accented voice, "Now, little lady, work a little magic wid dese here, for us all to see."

I was positioned in such a way that I could look directly into the faces of my fellow trainees, arranged in tiers above me. I could see their boobs, as well – an impressive collection of the full range of shapes, sizes and degree of dangle. Their pussies I couldn't see, despite my advantageous viewing position, because most of them were stubbornly keeping their legs crossed.

"Janie is now going to demonstrate how to maintain herself in a high state of readiness, so as to meet her master's needs," she explained. "Janie, please proceed."

What a strange position I now found myself in! I've had my share of sexual partners, at college and during my several years of software-writing work that followed, but I've always been more or less a plain-vanilla sort of girl when it comes to sex. As I permitted each of my boyfriends, in turn, to lead me into his bedroom – and never on the first date – I let each one think it was all his idea (which, if truth be told, it rarely was). I've been happy enough with my fellow geeks and their well-wielded peckers, however clumsily they penetrated me at first: from on top, missionary-position; or from behind, doggy-style; or even, if I was feeling frisky, with me bouncing along on top in good ol' ride-em-cowgirl style. Before we got down to business, I'd been content to stiffen those dangling dongs with a little swirly-whirly tongue-action on their cockheads. If they were so good as to reciprocate, by running a string of kisses from my navel on down my wispy happy-trail to my thickly-forested garden of earthly delights, so much the better. (Yes, I am a little hairy, and was glad when the shaved-pussy look went out of fashion, after its long run that, they say, started in the 1990s.)

But this – spreading my legs like some tattooed whore in a Vegas storefront and sliding a finger (or two, or three) in and out of my dripping cunt, in front of a roomful of observers – a roomful of female observers – this, I've never come close to doing before.

My body's no longer my own, I kept telling myself. Other people are calling the shots now. If I finger-fuck myself to orgasm, it's because Ms. Lockhart tells me to. If Dennis over there comes over and points my ankles skyward, resting them on his shoulders before sinking that throbbing pleasure-pole into me up to the hilt, it won't be because I gave him the old come-hither. You're only doing what you've been told, Janie – just as, when you wrapped your lips around that lab technician's smelly little pecker this morning, you were only doing what the medication was telling you to do.

I instinctively knew that the only way I was going to survive the years of sexual servitude stretching before me was to simply relax and go with the flow. You're not going to fight it, Janie. How can you? Yes, go with the flow, I thought to myself, as I immersed a couple fingers into the gooey pool that had already begun to lubricate my inmost parts. Faster and faster went my plunging fingers. When I felt a hand caressing my right breast, I knew from its size and feel that it belonged to Dennis. When I felt another hand, a much smaller one, caressing and gently squeezing my left breast – and giving the hard little nipple a tweak – I didn't need to look over to know it was Ms. Lockhart. She seemed a little hot and bothered, did Ms. Lockhart. Well, you go, girl. If that's the way you swing, you've got just as much a right to the Big O as any of us.

To say I saw stars would be an understatement. I think it was the whole Milky Way galaxy. No sooner did I remove my dripping fingers from my snatch, then my little fantasy of Dennis lifting my ankles into the air came true. Up onto his muscled shoulders those ankles went, then I felt something soft-and-hard-at-the-same-time pressing up against my cunt-lips, and "Oh, Dennis, you're The Man, oh yes, give it to me, give it all to me, fuck, fuck, fuck!"

I'm generally not a screamer during sex, but I don't think I've ever in my life taken a dick that large. Big dick, small dick, it doesn't much matter to me – they've all got their own special magic – but this man's heavy-duty industrial tool was a novelty. The idea of getting fucked by a black man was no novelty in the secret garden of my fantasy life, but – I realized, with a sense of abandon – this was no fantasy. That thought alone inspired me to add a few decibels to my little aria of pleasure. In between the high notes, I looked around at my fellow trainees. The legs were all uncrossed up there, now. I could hear a soft opera-chorus of heavy breathing and sighs emerging from the observation gallery. I could even glimpse a few sets of fingers discretely working in and out of some soft, hair-covered caverns of flesh. They couldn't see each other doing it, as they sat, side by side. But I could see them.

When Dennis suddenly stepped up his thrusting-speed to high gear, I knew he was getting ready to make the jump into hyperspace. "Give it to me, big man!" I cried out to both him and to the universe at large. "Give it to me, it's mine, all mine!"

Where is that coming from? I'm no screamer. Fuck it – maybe I am now.

Yes, fuck it. That would be a capital idea.

To be continued...



Take Only as Directed Ch. 04



This story takes place in the year 2029. America is a very different place. New laws have abolished personal bankruptcies and debtors' prisons have been revived. Janie, our twentysomething heroine, was about to be sentenced to just such a prison when she was tricked into signing up for a pilot program that keeps her in a kind of chemical captivity. Medicine released within her body causes debilitating nausea and other symptoms every 48 hours, unless she is administered a rescue dose of another medicine. The rescue dose is delivered through the ejaculation of the man for whom she will be a personal domestic servant, a latter-day concubine. Janie's training in the art of being a high-class, government-sanctioned sex worker continues...

***

With a groan, Dennis released his load deep inside me. I reveled in the feeling of his huge, black cock stretching me to my very fullest, and the dose of pleasure-drug that went coursing through my veins a few moments later. As his dick slowly deflated, I felt complete.

I scissored my legs out to each side of him, so they cleared his broad shoulders, then moved them down and across him, crossing my ankles atop his firm butt. Reflexively, I squeezed him to me with my thighs, and he responded by covering my mouth with his thick lips. His tongue forced my lips apart and probed deep into my mouth. Our tongues engaged in a gentle, delicate dance -- surprisingly so, given his powerful physique.

How different my life had become, in just a few short days! I was French-kissing a man I'd only just met, who had just laid me down on my back and fucked me to kingdom come before a whole roomful of witnesses. My old self would have flushed from head to toe with embarrassment at the mere thought of such a randy scene. Yet, my new self had embraced Dennis' muscular black body obediently, even hungrily. He was my Master, for the moment. There was no part of my body that did not belong to him, even my most private, intimate parts. Especially those private parts.

Dennis rolled off me, and we both sat up. As he pulled on his robe, and I reached to replace the black pump that had fallen off my left foot during our romp, I heard the sound of clapping.

It was just one set of hands, and they belonged to Ms. Lockhart. "Brava, Janie! Nicely done. You are an example of obedient service. You may return to your seat."

I walked up and took my place in the viewing gallery.

"Now," said Ms. Lockhart, "we have another little educational experience for all of you. For this one, we require the services of Lisa."

The freckled redhead immediately crossed her legs, and drew one hand up in a vain attempt to cover her ample breasts. "Please," she pleaded, "not me! I'm not ready for this."

"Ah, my dear," said Ms. Lockhart, "how do you know that until you try? I have chosen you especially for our next lesson. I believe you are admirably suited for it, more so than anyone else in this group. You will come down, now, and kneel before me."

Ms. Lockhart said it with only the barest hint of command in her voice. It was more like a statement of fact. What seemed even more surprising was that Lisa, a strong, self-confident attorney in her former life, got up from her seat and walked down the steps to meet Ms. Lockhart in the well of the small lecture theater. Without a word, she knelt on the floor at her feet, hands at her sides, head slightly bowed. Lisa's back was to me, and I could see, peeking out from below her freckled butt-cheeks, a fiery hint of her pubic hair that was now on full display to our instructor.

"That's more like it," said Ms. Lockhart, smiling slightly. She reached one hand down and gently touched Lisa's chin, lifting her head up until their eyes met for a moment. Something indefinable passed between them.

Then, to the whole group: "It sometimes happens that our clients are looking for a certain feistiness in their concubines. They know the constraints you are all under, and how difficult it is for any of you to resist their advances, given how badly you need to receive their bodily fluids. Some of them, though, enjoy the chase. They relish the challenge of bending another will to their own, of making you perform for them some intimate service you thought you would never do for anyone."

Ms. Lockhart held out a small, drawstring bag. "Lisa, you will put these on."

Lisa reached into the bag and pulled out four padded leather straps with buckles, two for the wrists and two for the ankles. Without a word, she buckled them on.

"Now you will remove the training device you'll find inside this bag."

Lisa reached into the second bag and pulled out a large, black butt plug. We could all see her shaking slightly as she realized what it was.

"You will find it an easier experience if you apply some of this." Ms. Lockhart held out a small squeeze-bottle of lube and removed the cap. Lisa hesitated, turning the butt plug over in her hands, regarding it with an expression of horror.

"Come now, my dear, we can do this with or without, but I really think you'd prefer with."

Wordlessly, Lisa held the butt plug out before her. Ms. Lockhart squeezed a generous ribbon of the clear gel down its entire length. She nodded, and Lisa worked her right hand up and down the plug, like she was jerking off a cock, until the black plastic glistened wetly.

"Now, you will place the plug upright on the floor and take it inside you. All of it."

Lisa did as she was told. She then lowered her butt slowly down, until she was in a hear-crouching position. Her eyes met ours, and she hesitated.

"You will find its passage will be easier if you tighten your muscles like you're about to expel an especially hard turd."

Flushing red with embarrassment at that graphic image, Lisa lowered her butt cheeks downward. Then, grimacing with discomfort and breathing in rapid bursts, she slowly impaled herself upon the large, black device. She kept going until her butt cheeks grazed the floor.

"Now, show your fellow-servants what the posterior of a true servant-girl looks like."

Slowly, Lisa stood up, then turned around so her ass was facing us.

"Come on now, Counselor, assume the position if you please (or even if you don't). Hands on ankles." After uttering a little sigh, with an oddly genteel elegance Lisa bent forward at the waist, wrapping her fingers around her own ankles. Her pale, freckled moon of an ass was on full display to us, with the flat black eye of the butt-plug at its center.

Ms. Lockhart walked over and gently caressed Lisa's butt cheeks. "See," she said, as much to us in the viewing gallery as to the young woman whose rectum she had just invaded by proxy, "that wasn't so bad, was it?"

Suddenly, Ms. Lockhart's hand flew up into the air and came back down on Lisa's ass with a sharp slap. "This, however, is a different matter, is it not?"

An angry red handprint appeared on Lisa's flawless, milky cheek. Another handprint appeared, then another, in rapid succession. Lisa recoiled slightly with each blow, but uttered not a sound.

"Very good, my dear, you're doing so wonderfully well at learning the rules of our little game. So many of our clients enjoy this game as well, and would love to have the opportunity to play it with you. Now you will get up and lie across the table over there. Face down, if you please." Ms. Lockhart gestured to a small, waist-high metal table off to one side of the lecture-theater stage.

Lisa walked over to it, and bent over at her mid-section until her torso was stretched across the table-top and her plugged ass was again on full display. Walking over to her, Ms. Lockhart pulled Lisa's leather-strapped wrists downward, securing each one to a table-leg by means of a metal fastening device. Then, she pushed Lisa's feet out to the side with her own ankles, securing each ankle-strap in similar fashion. Her ass and pussy were now spread wide, for convenient access.

"Ladies, let me introduce Gunther, another one of our trainers. Gunther is a true devotee of the charms of the female posterior." A bathrobe-clad man of medium build entered the room, clad in a white terrycloth bathrobe.

Ms. Lockhart reached over and pulled the drawstring of Gunther's robe that was already tenting out in front. An average-sized cock sprang up, pointing upwards in rakish salute. Gunther shrugged off his robe and stood there, at attention in more ways than one "You will note that Gunther's equipment is of just the right size to travel easily up the nether passage. I believe our colleague Lisa will find Gunther's prowess most, er, inspiring."

Then, to the young man: "Step over here, please, Gunther, and give our pert young friend, here, the opportunity to lubricate your equipment before you go to work. Unless, of course, she prefers to receive you as is."

Stepping around to the other side of the table, Gunther positioned his long, thin prick in front of Lisa's mouth. She stared at it for a moment, then slowly opened her lips. Gunther filled the space as soon as it opened to him. Slowly, he moved his piston in and out of the redheaded attorney's mouth. She responded with slurping sounds.

At a nod from Ms. Lockhart, Gunther removed his dripping dick from Lisa's mouth, walking back around to her backside. Reaching down, he pulled the buttplug out. A gaping, pink-black hole, dripping with lube, was revealed to our astonished eyes for a moment, before he filled it with his willing member.

Lisa shuddered and moaned. It did not seem to us an unhappy sound. Slowly at first, then more rapidly, Gunther flexed his pelvis, traversing Lisa's Hershey Highway. The statuesque redhead's little squeals of pain became deep moans of pleasure before Gunther abruptly stopped his piston action, pressing himself between the twin globes of Lisa's posterior before pulling completely out. A few drops of semen fell to the floor between her feet. We looked on in wonder as Lisa's gaping, quivering asshole slowly resumed its usual dimensions, winking shut at last.

Gunther picked up his robe and left the room. Ms. Lockhart walked over to Lisa, unbuckled her arms and legs, then lifted her by one hand from her spreadeagle position into an erect posture, facing us. Her eyes looked downwards in shame.

Ms. Lockhart reached her other hand under Lisa's chin and raised her head up, until she made eye contact with us. "You are not to look downwards after offering one of your bodily orifices in a master's service," the instructor said to her. "While an attitude of subservience may be appropriate before a fucking, it is not appropriate afterwards. You are providing a useful and much-appreciated service, and you are to take pride in that. Am I understood?"

"Yes, ma'am," replied Lisa, in a voice closer to that of a little girl than her strong, confident courtroom attorney's demeanor. We could not help but notice how the tight, angry lines around the edges of her mouth had softened into a satisfied smile.

"That will be all, Lisa."

Lisa started to walk back to her seat, then stopped and walked quickly over to the edge of the table where she had been bound. Squatting down, she scooped up the spilled semen on two fingers, then placed the fingers into her mouth. She softly suckled them as she resumed her walk back to her seat.

Ms. Lockhart beamed in approval.

To be continued...



Take Only as Directed Ch. 05



This story takes place in the year 2029. America is a very different place. New laws have abolished personal bankruptcies and debtors' prisons have been revived. Janie, our twentysomething heroine, was about to be sentenced to just such a prison when she was tricked into signing up for a pilot program that keeps her in a kind of chemical captivity. Medicine released within her body causes debilitating nausea and other symptoms every 48 hours, unless she is administered a rescue dose of another medicine. The rescue dose is delivered through the ejaculation of the man for whom she will be a personal domestic servant, a latter-day concubine. Janie's still in the Training Center, learning the art of being a high-class, government-sanctioned sex worker, as prospective masters look her over.

That's basically what you need to know, but read the earlier chapters if you want to know how Janie got to this point.

***

How do you learn to do the nasty?

Everybody knows the answer to that one. It's just like riding a bike. You learn by doing. Just as Lisa had, when she bent over and grasped hold of her ankles, letting Gunther replace her butt-plug with something a little more lifelike.

No surprise, there. Learning by doing is the working philosophy of the Training Center.

I was in residence there just over two weeks, before departing to service my first master. My days were full of lectures, question-and-answer sessions and video clips – not to mention the ever-present live demonstrations. Some of those I participated in. Others, I sat back and observed, my fingers gently playing over my pubic mound.

I couldn't help myself. I don't know whether it was the medicine circulated by that little pump inside me, or the repeated rescue doses I received from one swollen cock or another, but something injected into my body was making me horny as hell.

I was naked the entire two weeks, but for my high heels. We'd all grown used to walking around in them, our butt-cheeks swinging just-so as we strutted. After the first day or so, it ceased feeling kinky. It was just what we wore.

I realize I may sound like some kind of super-slut, with all this talk about walking around in stiletto heels and masturbating in odd moments. That's not really who I am. Before signing onto the program, I was just a girl who'd grown a little too fond of her credit cards, not Ms. Wham-Bam-Thanky-Mam. It's part and parcel of the transformation my fellow inmates and I were undergoing, as those mood-altering drugs coursed through our bloodstreams. With our bodies' new chemical cravings, the hunt for cum – the right kind of cum, from a man whose cock dispensed the rescue dose we needed – was never far from our minds.

Believe me, the instructors had no problem maintaining student attention in the classroom. We'd all experienced what it feels like to go too long without that milky elixir. No way were any of us putting ourselves through that agony again.

We all knew we were caught between a rock and a hard place. Hang around the Center too long and eventually, like some forlorn mutt in a pound, the powers that be would figure you didn't have the right stuff. They'd pluck you right out of there, and return you to the regular judicial system. Sure, they'd remove the implanted medicine-pump from your body and eventually you'd get back to feeling OK, but until then, you'd go through hell.

Only one thing stood between me and such a fate. He was my ticket out of there: the as-yet nameless, faceless man who would become my Master. Every waking minute, I knew he could be watching me, through some concealed digital camera or any of the one-way mirrors that were all over the place.

I'm not exaggerating when I say we were being watched all the time. Our jailors reminded us of that, frequently – although if we had any doubts, we could hear little sounds every now and again that confirmed it.

How would my new employer make contact with me, I wondered? I hadn't the foggiest. At any point, if such were his desire, he could step out of the shadows and claim me. Then, he would take me home with him, or wherever else he wished to install me: as mistress, chambermaid, pool girl – who knew? With a little luck, my bouncing buns would live slappily ever after, or at least until this infernal jail sentence was up.

I tried to imagine him as I lay in my bed at night, drifting off to sleep. Try as I might, his facial features failed to come together in my mind. I just couldn't picture him, not even in fantasy.

Except for his penis. In my imagination, his cock was a magnificent alabaster shaft, covered by throbbing veins. It had to be 3 inches wide, its mushroom-head even larger, the size of a large peach. Emerging from its thicket of dark pubic hair, its 12+ inches curved gently upward. How would I ever accommodate such a massive member? It seemed impossible. Yet, stranger things have happened in dreams. Always, in my edge-of-sleep fantasy, I would spread my legs wider and wider – impossibly wide, double-jointed wide – until that massive cock-head would press its way ever-so-slowly up my dripping canal, splitting me asunder but causing not a twinge of pain. Then, it would be wave after wave of ecstasy, until my very self was obliterated by the tsunami of his ejaculation.

I have no idea what concoction those Halliburton chemists came up with, and subsequently packed inside the prostate of every man who'd fucked one of my orifices since I stepped out of that van and shed my street clothes – but, let me tell you, it's good stuff. It messes with your mind.

The first time I met a prospective master, I didn't see him. I heard him. We'd just finished a training session that involved taking progressively bigger dildos into our throats without gagging. Latoya, Lisa and I were in a little group, laughing at how ridiculous we'd all looked, deep-throating those plastic dongs, when one of the staffers in a lab coat hurried up to me and said, "Janie, come with me now. Your presence is required." There was an urgency in her tone that made me wonder if I'd done something wrong.

Using her key-card, she ushered me through a couple sliding doors and into a tiny room that contained nothing but a black vinyl couch facing a large mirror. Then, before I had the chance to even ask what this was all about, she turned on her heel and left me, locking the door behind her.

I walked up to the mirror and peered into it. One-way glass, I was certain. Was anyone sitting silently in the darkness on the other side? There could have been a dozen silent voyeurs in there for all I knew, getting their rocks off watching my jugs jiggle.

I made a show of picking something out of my teeth as I looked into the mirror.

Then, I gave my bazoongas an extra little jiggle, just to make sure.

Aware that I was probably being watched, I did the only thing I could do in that tiny, bare-walled room. I parked my butt-cheeks on the cold vinyl, crossed my legs and waited.

It was probably only a couple minutes, but it seemed much longer. Abruptly a ceiling speaker crackled into life. "You are Janie," declared the voice, a passionless monotone.

"Yes, er, Master."

"No need to call me Master yet. I've signed no contract. I'm just doing some window shopping. But so far, I like what I see. Be a good girl, now, and stand up. Give Daddy a closer look."

I stood up, then slowly pirouetted. I assumed one or two pornstar poses, or what I imagined to be pornstar poses. Though I knew I was a rank amateur.

"You are eager to please. I like that. Now, please, sit down again."

I sat down.

"Tell me, Janie, how old were you when you first had sex?"

"Sixteen."

"Who was the lucky man?"

"No man at all, just a kid in my school. We'd been messing around in his basement, when second base suddenly became third, and before we knew it, the crowd went wild."

"You have a way with words. Very amusing. Tell me what you like to do, sexually. What makes you wet between the legs?"

There was a time when I would have answered such a question with a wisecrack about cunning linguists and how hard they are to find, but I realized, in that moment, how much this experience was already changing me. I felt a subtle but unmistakable stirring in my nether regions. I also had the distinct impression that a damp space was forming on the vinyl cushion beneath me, merely at the resonant sound of that voice.

It had been well over a day since I'd been fucked, or otherwise ingested any of Dr. Halliburton's Patented Tonic. I was starting to feel a little queasy.

Bottom line was, I needed some.

The conversation that followed was reminiscent of one of those porno-audition videos, a series of probing questions about my sexual history. I tried my best to convey the impression of a devil-may-care party girl.

He didn't need to move on to the next stage, where he tells me to masturbate. To my surprise, I realized I was already doing it, as I spun out the overly-embellished tale of my sexual awakening.

Whether he enjoyed the sound of my fingers squishing in and out of my well-lubricated bush, I have no idea. Whatever shred of modesty I'd once had, The Training Center had confiscated it along with my clothes.

"I like your answers," said the Voice. "Now, give me a moment. Carry on as you are."

No more than a couple minutes later, the door opened and a man walked into the room. He was in his mid-forties, muscular and a little too tanned, if you know what I mean. He was dressed a little like the Hollywood stereotype of a gangster, right down to the gold chains. His thinning hair displayed a greasy sheen, perhaps aided and abetted by a little Grecian Formula.

"Stand up," my knight-in-tarnished-armor commanded.

I did.

He put a hand under my chin and looked into my eyes, as though his gaze could somehow hold me.

"Now it's time to squeeze the melons," he said with a chuckle – a real charmer, this one – before reaching out and giving my titties a hard and rather painful squeeze. Then, he put a hand on my hip and spun me around. I fell forward, breaking my fall with my outstretched arms on the sofa cushion.

He did the same for the twin globes of my ass, squeezing them hard. I'm sure he left red marks. Then, I could hear the sound of a belt buckle being unfastened, and a pair of trousers hitting the floor. 

A couple unlubricated fingers roughly penetrated my pussy from behind. I spread my legs a little, to accommodate.

Then, the fingers pulled my lips apart, and I could feel an average-sized cockhead nosing around the gates. Not much of a one for foreplay, this one.

With a single hard thrust and a grunt of pleasure, he sheathed his love-sword to the hilt. I was more than a little wet by then, but he didn't seem to care. In and out he thrust, pulling almost all the way out before slamming his way back in, his balls brushing my butt cheeks on every stroke.

I just stood there, leaning over, my weight on my arms, pushing back with my butt in a vain effort to meet his irregular strokes.

We never seemed to achieve even the semblance of a common rhythm but then, with a deep groan, he jammed himself all the way in, held still for a moment, and came.

Then, without so much as a hug or even an ear-nibble, he pulled his trousers back up. "Don't call us, chickie. We'll call you." This joker was the soul of wit.

He opened the door with his key card and walked out, without even telling me his name.

"Well," I thought to myself, after collapsing back on the now-slimy vinyl cushion with a sigh. "I guess I've just been sampled."

My next thought was, "God, I hope he's not the one. Sure, I'll do whatever I have to, for whomever I have to, for as long as I have to, just to feel normal again – but this idiot would probably be just as happy with an inflatable love doll, for all the attention he paid me as a person."

Then, a disturbing thought pushed its way into my mind, as rudely as my suitor's cockhead had just tickled my cervix: "But, are you even a person any more? You're just a cunt. A cunt for lease. The man who rents out that cunt can do whatever the hell he wants with it, and your heart and mind just have to go along for the ride."

Suddenly, I felt lonely. An unexpected tear fell from my eye.

To be continued...



Take Only as Directed Ch. 06



This story takes place in the year 2029. America is a very different place. New laws have abolished personal bankruptcies and debtors' prisons have been revived. Janie, our twentysomething heroine, was about to be sentenced to just such a prison when she was tricked into signing up for a pilot program that keeps her in a kind of chemical captivity. Medicine released within her body causes debilitating nausea and other symptoms every 48 hours, unless she is administered a rescue dose of another medicine. The rescue dose is delivered through the ejaculation of the man for whom she will be a personal domestic servant, a latter-day concubine. Janie's still in the Training Center, learning the art of being a high-class, government-sanctioned sex worker, as prospective masters look her over.

That's basically what you need to know, but read the earlier chapters if you want to know how Janie got to this point.

***

My blue interlude didn't last long. The effect of the drugs delivered through my anonymous paramour's semen, seeping through my vaginal walls, suffused my whole being with a kind of warmth. After a little moping about his caddishness, I couldn't stop smiling.

The guy may have been a real dick, but at least that dick was loaded up with something special for lil' ol' me.

I was rapidly realizing these liaisons were not about affection. They were about sheer, unbridled lust. And I was the lustee. Or, one of several candidates for that distinction.

Once our little group got through the initial few days of adjustment, we were allowed a little more freedom to roam around within the Training Center. There was a breakfast area where we could fix our own meals. That became a favorite gathering-place.

That's where I learned, from LaToya, the tall African-American, that Lisa, the attorney with a predilection for S&M, had been snapped up by a master with similar interests. LaToya herself had had a tryst with a professional basketball player, but nothing had come of it. She was hopeful he'd return and claim her, but she wasn't losing sleep over it.

Wei Mi, a willowy Chinese-American woman with a gorgeous alabaster complexion, was likewise scooped up by Mr. Goldchains and had an experience similar to mine. He turned her over his knee, spanked her, fucked her in the ass, then dropped her as rudely as he dropped me. Still window-shopping, I guess (or orifice-shopping, as the case may be).

My next "interview" was a tandem experience involving Wei Mi. Just as she and I were leaving a sex-toys demonstration, Ms. Lockhart showed up and took us aside. "There you two are!" she said, a conspiratorial twinkle in her eye. "I need to speak with you."

Whereupon she informed us there were two potential clients who wanted to speak with Wei Mi and myself together.

And why would that be, I wondered? – being pretty sure I knew the answer.

Ms. Lockhart chuckled. "Well, perhaps 'speak' is not the best word. These guys like girl-girl action. I figured you two are quick on the uptake and can make that happen for them. Am I wrong?"

Ms. Lockhart was standing between us as she said that. Reaching down, she gently caressed each of our butts. "They're looking to see you two rather soon. Too bad, because otherwise I'd take you aside myself and give you some private instruction."

She led the two of us to a bedroom where a couple of twenty-something men were waiting. They looked like bored rich kids with a little too much discretionary income – which is exactly what they were.

"Well helloooo, ladies!" said one, leering at us and giving us the once-over. "My name's Alex. This is my friend, Matt. Wow, you two are HOT!"

What a romantic.

"I can think of something even hotter," leered Matt.

"And what would that be, my good man?" asked Alex, in a way that made it clear he already knew the answer.

"Why, if these ladies would show us a little lezzie action!" (How subtle their approach.)

I walked over to Wei Mi, putting my arms around her and nuzzling her neck. Alex and Matt responded with catcalls. That gave me just enough cover to whisper in her ear, "Have you ever done anything like this before?"

"No. I come from a very traditional family. I was actually a virgin when they brought me in here."

"Well, I haven't, either. But we need what these guys have to give us. I say, the show must go on. Capiche?"

Whereupon I turned and gave Wei Mi a huge, sloppy kiss right on the lips. I could feel her tense up at the touch, but almost immediately she loosened up. Evidently, she bought my logic. Necessity is the mother of Sapphic invention, it would seem.

I ran my index finger down her back and palmed her left butt-cheek, giving it a friendly squeeze. She did the same for my right posterior lobe. Seeing that, our appreciative audience responded with heavy breathing.

We continued to stand there, kissing and groping, until the thought occurred to me that one of us would have to initiate the next step, and it wasn't going to be my inexperienced partner. I reached down, picked up Wei Mi's diminutive body, and slung her over my right shoulder. Walking over to the king-sized bed, I dropped her down on her back. She bounced up in the air a few inches, and when she came back down, I pounced.

Reaching for her hands, I lifted them up over her head and pinned them to the bed with one hand. Then, I lay my much larger body atop hers, inserting one thigh in between her legs. I began to rock my body gently back and forth.

Wei Mi pushed back and squealed a little, in mock resistance. I knew from the eager way she was kissing me back that she was by no means unhappy, despite my having taken her by surprise. Or, maybe because of it.

I reached down and slipped a finger into her pussy. It came out dripping. Fast learner, this Wei Mi.

Slowly I moved down her neck, kissing and licking all the way. I paused to suck each of her small but very prominent erect nipples into my mouth, nibbling them gently. That got a deep moan out of her.

Moving down to her navel, I gave it a little swirly action, then descended to the dense, very black jungle of her pubic hair. I inhaled the rich aroma of vaginal juices, mixed with the faint, leftover bouquet of urine. Wei Mi spread her legs without any encouragement from me. Good, obedient girl. She wanted this.

In my brief muffdiving career, I've learned there's only one way to approach this task: by giving it your all. It's like eating watermelon. Sure, you can try to do it genteelly, nibbling delicately at the succulent flesh and keeping your chin dry. Or, you can dive right in, paying no heed to whatever sticky juices may coat your face.

The second method is by far the most fun.

Taking a deep breath, I pressed my whole face firmly into Wei Mi's pussy. She let out a gutteral moan that was quite uncharacteristic of her. Then, I began lap up and down her labia with my tongue.

In no time at all, my face was wet with her juices. A true ripe-melon feast. And she was moaning to beat the band.

After her orgasm, I rolled off her, and moments later, we changed places. Wei Mi slipped into my eat-at-the-Y role. At first, her licks were gentle and delicate, but then I reached down and pressed her face into my own garden of eatin'. In no time at all, the watermelon juice was running down her chin as well.

I came, hugging her face to me and waving my legs in he air, until she pulled away from my grip, so she could breathe. "Sorry, lover," I said to her. "I kinda lost track of myself there."

"I noticed," said she. "But I like it."

Off to one side, on a couple of chairs, sat our guys. Both had their pants around their ankles and were spanking the monkey. Guess we put on quite a show for them.

Looking at us looking at them, they stopped their stroking, stepped out of their by-now very low-riding pants, and walked over to the king-sized bed where we lay exhausted.

Matt made for me, and Alex for Wei Mi. Noticing Matt had gotten a bit soft on his brief trip across the room, I got up on my hands and knees and opened my mouth, cocking my head to one side. He got the message: open mouth, insert dick. (Not rocket science.) I sucked and slurped. Beside me, Wei Mi, who was mirroring my actions, was doing much the same.

We were there with Matt and Alex for the next hour. Missionary fucking, doggie-style fucking, side-by-side fucking, and a few variations of those traditional themes. These two weren't especially adept at it, but what they lacked in finesse, they made up for in sheer exuberance.

It's every man's fantasy: watch a couple chicks make love, then plant your pole in them to claim the territory. Matt and Alex did so several times, switching off with us in tag-team fashion. One would slap the other on the back or rump, calling out "Tag!" The slappee would then roll off whichever one of us he was on, yielding up our furrow for the other to plow.

As we lay around afterwards, sated and happy, we listened to Matt and Alex talk about their rich-kid, party-hardy lives. Was there a place for us in those lives?

Evidently not. I don't think it was anything they disliked about us, necessarily. It was just that they knew there were greener pastures elsewhere in the training facility, and they wanted to try a few more of our fellow inmates out first, to see which ones they liked best.

We never did get a callback from them. For me, that didn't matter, because before 24 hours had passed, I was on a private jet heading off to the place that was to be my new home. Here's how it happened...

It surprised me, the next morning, when one of the staffers came by to ask me to come with her to a small room that had only a number on the door. Following her inside, I saw that the room was essentially a walk-in clothing closet. Selecting a silk bathrobe, she told me to put it on. "Don't worry about the all-nudity policy," she said. We have a client who wants to speak with you. He says he's already seen you naked over the camera system, and you meet with his approval. He'd find it easier to have an undistracted conversation, he says, if you've got something on."

Well, this seemed a novelty to me. She brought me down to a conference room and had me take a seat at the conference table. The room actually had a window to the outside. I realized that, in the two weeks I'd lived at the Training Center, this was the first time I'd had a look at the outside world.

An interior door opened, and a well-dressed man in his mid-40s came in. "Hi, I'm Janie," said I, trying to sound cheery.

"Yes, I know," he said, in an elegant English accent. "You may call me Mr. Gilpin. Before you get the wrong impression, let me tell you I have been sent here by my employer, who has decided he has need of the services of one of the participants in this (how shall we call it?) government program." He pronounced the word "program" in an ironic way, bordering on distasteful.

"I am the manager of his household, a role more commonly referred to in earlier days as his butler. He has given me some specifications, and instructed me to extend an invitation to a suitable young woman to join our household staff on a trial basis. I have decided that you are to be that person."

Well, this was sure a switch from Mr. Goldchains. And how, I wondered, had Mr. Gilpin – who, evidently, had the title "procurer" in his job description – determined I was the choice?

Perhaps he could see the curiosity in my eyes, because he went on: "Yes, I'm sure you're wondering how I made my choice, and especially how I could do so on behalf of another man. My employer actually has some things he would like for you to do, beyond the intimate personal services for which you have recently been trained. And so, I have examined your resumé from your prior employment, and found it a good match for the 'Gal Friday' responsibilities my employer has in mind. I have been observing your interactions with your neighbors here in this facility, and have been impressed with your general tendencies towards civility and kindness. As the manager of the household, such traits are important to me. I know they are to the other staff as well. While my employer is very interested in the physical solace you may provide him during lonely nights, he is not eager to have the rest of the staff, nor the world at large, be constantly reminded of your history in this program. So, I will ask you, please, not to speak of it to anyone other than him or myself."

"Curiouser and curiouser," as Alice would say. Here I was, all ready to drop to my knees and drain this guy's testicles, but it turns out he's not Da Man at all. Just an emissary.

And a pretty good-looking one, at that.

"Can you tell me, Mr. Gilpin, when I can expect to meet my new employer? You may know that I have a certain, shall we say, physical need that must be fulfilled."

"Quite. We have made arrangements to cover that eventuality," he said, giving me a knowing smile.

Whereupon I stood up, let the bathrobe fall to the floor, and walked over to where he was standing. I was just starting to reach for the zipper of his pants when he grew red in the face and said, "Janie, my apologies if I gave you the wrong impression. I'm not the one to provide you with the, er, medication you need. In fact, it is no secret in the household that my personal preferences are for partners of the male gender."

He indicated a sideboard, where a pitcher of water and a glass were sitting on a tray. "On that tray is a tablet which contains the same rescue dose that is delivered in a more lusty fashion in this facility. The pill form is for emergencies. Since it will be several days before you meet your new employer, I suggest you swallow it, for your own comfort."

Mr. Gilpin indicated a chair in the corner, on which was sitting an open suitcase. "You will find in that suitcase some clothing in your size. After you have taken your medication, please put it on, because it wouldn't do for you to travel to the airport in your present state of deshabillé. And by the way, you can leave the stilletto heels behind. You will have no need of them. Please be ready to depart in 20 minutes."

Gilpin turned to leave the room. "Wait," I said, grabbing his elbow to stop him. 

He turned and looked back at me with some amusement: a stark-naked woman in high heels, holding onto the sleeve of his expensive tailored jacket.

"You haven't told me who my new 'employer' is."

"I have not forgotten," he replied. "Discretion is called for in this case, so my plan is to share that information with you once we are aboard the plane."

Whereupon Gilpin left, and I donned the clothing that had been selected for me. There was nothing especially sexy about it: a pair of slacks with matching blazer, a button-down shirt, practical, low-heeled shoes. Casual business attire. The only exception was the bra and panties, which were in black lace, of the Victoria's Secret variety. I wondered if Gilpin, that old queen, had picked those naughty undies out especially, on behalf of his boss – or if maybe they came from his personal wardrobe? I shook my head in bemused disbelief, not wanting to go there.

How swiftly my life had changed, once again!

Half an hour later, I was seated beside Mr. Gilpin in the back seat of a chauffeur-driven town car. The driver took us not the regular airport, but to a smaller executive airport. We boarded a private jet. It was not until we were airborne than Mr. Gilpin handed me a file folder. I opened it and learned that my new employer – the man for whom I was going to be a Gal Friday with benefits – was none other than the famously reclusive inventor and billionaire industrialist, Richard Balfour.

To be continued...



Take Only as Directed Ch. 07



This story takes place in the year 2029. America is a very different place. New laws have abolished personal bankruptcies and debtors' prisons have been revived. Janie, our twentysomething heroine, was about to be sentenced to just such a prison when she was tricked into signing up for a pilot program that keeps her in a kind of chemical captivity. Medicine released within her body causes debilitating nausea and other symptoms every 48 hours, unless she is administered a rescue dose of another medicine. The rescue dose is delivered through the ejaculation of the man for whom she will be a personal domestic servant, a latter-day concubine. Janie's just been chosen by Mr. Gilpin, the butler of billionaire industrialist Richard Balfour, to be his boss's Gal-Friday-with-benefits, but she's not yet met him.

Read the earlier chapters if you want to know how Janie got to this point. 

***

Richard Balfour's house was like none other I'd ever seen, or imagined. It was a vast and sprawling mansion built on several levels on a Northern California hillside, overlooking the rolling waves of the Pacific. The place had been built to his specifications, and included every comfort.

Because Balfour's fortune came from computer hardware and software, it also wasn't surprising that the house boasted the latest wireless connections throughout, as well as a host of "smart" features that I was forever discovering.

Balfour had a number of people discreetly working for him both inside the house and out. Except for Mr. Gilpin, the butler-cum-household-manager, few had clearly-defined roles, but all seemed to pitch in where needed, under Gilpin's overall direction. Phil, the Asian-American man who drove us from the local executive airport to the house, for instance, wasn't a chauffeur in the old-fashioned sense. He had responsibilities in grounds maintenance and security. The car he drove us in was nothing so ostentatious as a limo -- that wasn't Balfour's style, it seemed -- but rather a well-appointed luxury SUV.

Gilpin led me in through a back door and gave me a quick tour of the house's principal rooms. There were grand spaces for entertaining a large number of guests, as well as smaller, cozier rooms for times when the master of the house pretty much had the place to himself.

"This will be your room," Gilpin said at last, pushing open a solid-wood door. I was astounded at the size of it, as well as the view over the Pacific visible from its small balcony.

It contained a king-sized bed, a flat-screen TV, a stereo sound system and a bathroom that contained a two-person Jacuzzi, a large walk-in shower with multiple spray-jets and a bidet. I had never in my life stayed in such a luxurious place, even for one night. The thought of living there astounded me.

"The room you're in," explained the butler, "was first occupied by Mr. Balfour's most recent ex-wife, and at various times after that by women friends he invited to join him here for briefer periods. I will leave it to him to explain the details of his recent relationship history, but here's the shorthand version. After three bitterly-contested divorces and a series of failed romantic relationships, at the age of 54 he's sworn off any serious commitments. He is looking to you, Janie, to see to his day-to-day personal needs, in a way that will allow him to devote as much time as he needs to chairing the board of the Balfour Group of companies and pursuing his various philanthropic interests. Now, let me show you what's over here."

Opening a door, he led me into a walk-in cedar closet. There were a few clothing items on hangers that looked like they would fit me, with space for many more.

"The clothing here has been selected for you, but you'll also have the opportunity to order additional items online, not to mention the side shopping-trips you can take when you're accompanying Mr. Balfour on business trips to major cities. He'll provide you with a cash card to purchase whatever you think you need, within reason. What I'd really like to show you, though, is this."

Gesturing towards the back of the closet, Gilpin indicated another door. "This door, which is locked from this side, opens into a similar but much larger closet just off Mr. Balfour's bedroom. You'll see plenty of that room in time, but not today. The positioning of the doors, as well as the thickness of the walls, means the connection between the two rooms is soundproof. When Mr. Balfour desires you to attend him in his bedroom, he'll unlock the door from his end. Or, he may simply come through and visit you here in your room. The arrangement is designed for maximum discretion. Even if the house is full of guests, no one will know if that connecting door is unlocked except the two of you.

Suddenly I felt dampness between my legs. After our long day of jet and car travel, I realized I'd gone without sexual release, now, for nearly 24 hours. That wouldn't have been exceptional in my former life, but it was my longest period of abstinence since arriving at the Training Center. The mere thought of padding through that cedar-scented passage, barefoot and bare-assed, then falling backwards onto the bed and offering the Chairman of the Board his choice of orifices made me, in a word, horny as hell. And I hadn't even met the guy yet. He could turn out to be a real creep, for all I knew. But the chemical changes wrought in my body led me to overlook such niceties. My imaginings were focused like a laser beam on trying to picture my new Master's package dangling between his legs.

I was feeling fine -- the emergency pill I'd swallowed before I left the Training Center was still staving off any nausea, chills and other side-effects of abstinence -- but I'd grown so used to the Center's non-stop fuckathon that I knew the next few days would be an adjustment. How often would Balfour unlock that door, I wondered?

I couldn't ask Mr. Gilpin that -- nor would he have known the answer -- so I chose a more ordinary question instead. "And where is Mr. Balfour now?"

"He's jetting back, as we speak, from the world economics summit at Davos, in Switzerland. I expect him here by mid-morning tomorrow. He knows of your arrival, and is eager to meet you. He'll advise you when he has need of you. Let me remind you that your duties will be varied, to assist him in whatever he needs. He's just as likely to ask you to run errands or do research on the internet as he is to invite you to crawl between his sheets. He desires, at this stage of his life, for you to satisfy his physical needs in as low-key and discreet a way as possible. That's your job, Janie: to serve him in every sense. You'll need to rely just as much on what you've got between your ears as what you've got between your legs."

Gilpin looked at me and smiled. "You'll find it in your self-interest to make Mr. Balfour your object of study. Learn what he needs, so you can discreetly offer it before he asks. Make yourself available in every way, but don't press yourself upon him, neither physically nor in conversation. He's aware of his responsibility to keep you supplied with your rescue dose of medicine, and will conscientiously see that you get it at least every 48 hours. Failing that, just call me, night or day, and I'll make sure you have access to the emergency pills."

Gilpin gave me a knowing look before continuing. "When Mr. Balfour travels, you will travel with him. He expects you to present yourself to the world as his personal assistant, his 'Gal Friday,' and to comport yourself professionally and discreetly. You are to give no hint of the physical aspects of your relationship. No one but he and I are to know of the arrangements under which you've come here -- which is why he sent me to represent him at the Training Center rather than going himself. Remember, he has purchased the rights to your body and your mind. If you grasp the fundamental nature of your responsibilities, your stay here is likely to be long. If not, he'll have no compunction about sending you back to the Center in exchange for another candidate. The best way to extend your stay is by making yourself indispensable."

Whereupon the ever-courteous Mr. Gilpin nodded a farewell and left me to my own devices.

I realized, then, that he and I had a mutual interest in making this thing work. He'd made the choice on our Master's behalf, so he had an investment in making sure I knew what I was doing. I filed that thought away, for future reference.

After my close confinement and constant supervision in the Center, you'd better believe I took full advantage of that well-appointed guest room. After eating dinner off a tray the kitchen staff sent up at my request, I filled the Jacuzzi with lavender bath salts and submerged myself up to my neck.

The fragrant, sudsy water felt like hundreds of tiny masseur-fingers, caressing every inch of my skin. Looking up, I discovered that the ceiling over the tub was covered with mirror-tiles. I sat up a little, then, causing my rounded breasts, topped by their dark-brown nipples, to emerge from the water like islands in a soapy sea. I lifted them in both hands, raising them as an oblation to my voluptuous alter-ego in the ceiling tiles. Sliding my arm across my chest, I rolled and tweaked first one impertinently erect nipple, then the other. Then, I let my fingers drift downwards, gently tangling themselves in my thick, black bush. Ecstasy.

After toweling off and blow-drying my shoulder-length brown hair, I padded naked into the alcove where my bed was located. Picking up a remote control to the entertainment system, I chose some relaxing, New Age music. Then, arranging the fluffy bed-pillows into a satiny mountain, I leaned back, allowing the bath-softened fingertips of my left hand to gently caress the curve of my breasts. With my right hand, I continued what I'd begun in the tub, gently stroking my pussy. My fingers had no trouble gaining admission to the dark treasure-house within, and stroked the labia, up and down -- first languidly, then in a slowly-mounting rhythm. Bringing them up to my other lips for a taste, I found they were coated with what my dyke high-school health teacher used to clinically refer to as "viscous fluids."

Faster and faster my nimble fingers danced, until I was three-finger fucking myself: thumb and forefinger taking turns circling my clit and moving into and out of my dripping pussy, while my middle finger was sunk to the second knuckle in my puckered asshole. In no time at all, waves of sweet pleasure washed over me, but did I stop? Why should I? I had noplace else to go, nothing I had to do. I kept going, enjoying one rolling, pelvis-shaking orgasm after another.

Damn. I could get used to this.



Take Only as Directed Ch. 08



This story takes place in the year 2029. America is a very different place. New laws have abolished personal bankruptcies and debtors' prisons have been revived. Janie, our twentysomething heroine, was about to be sentenced to just such a prison when she was tricked into signing up for a pilot program that keeps her in a kind of chemical captivity. Medicine released within her body causes debilitating nausea and other symptoms every 48 hours, unless she is administered a rescue dose of another medicine. The rescue dose is delivered through the ejaculation of the man for whom she will be a personal domestic servant, a latter-day concubine. In this episode, Janie finally meets her mysterious new master, billionaire industrialist Richard Balfour for whom she will be a Gal-Friday-with-benefits.

Read the earlier chapters if you want to know how Janie got to this point. 

***

The next day, about 3 in the afternoon, the invitation came by way of a curt phone call from Mr. Gilpin, the butler: "Janie, Mr. Balfour will see you now. Please attend him in his study on the second floor."

Not his bedroom, but his study. It looked like it was going to be business before pleasure.

Having heard how much Mr. Balfour values discretion, and knowing how much he wanted me to appear not as a convict out on sexual work-release, but rather as an ordinary employee, I'd decided not to dress provocatively. From the walk-in closet in my room, I'd chosen a simple, navy-blue business suit with white blouse. The skirt was knee-length, and underneath it I wore pantyhose and sensible, low-heeled shoes. Just what I might be expected to wear in an office setting.

Fortunately, that morning I'd done a little recon around the vast, sprawling mansion, so I knew exactly where that second-floor study was located. Walking briskly, I made my way there as quickly as I could go.

My haste was encouraged by a sickly feeling that was slowly growing in the pit of my stomach. My chemical clock was ticking. In a purely physiological sense, I needed what Mr. Balfour had to give me, and I needed it soon.

"No sense appearing over-eager," I cautioned myself. "If Balfour were like most men, he'd be perfectly happy with a slut, who'd plop down on a swivel chair like Sharon Stone in that old movie, spread her legs and flash her hairy crotch. If that's what he wanted, he'd already have you walking around the place naked as a jaybird, in high heels." (That, as any of you who've read my earlier chapters know, was the "uniform" I'd grown used to at the training center.) "He had Gilpin read your work resumé before choosing you. You'd better look the part."

So, I did. An efficient-looking secretary, an older woman, was encamped at the desk in the outer office. Ms. Ingeborg was her name. Her graying blonde hair and nordic features made her look like some Swedish ice-maiden. She looked up as I entered the room. Her eyes met mine. They betrayed nothing of what she might or might not know about my real purpose for being there.

"Proceed," was all she said, motioning me towards a blank section of paneled wall. At that instant, perhaps because she'd pressed some hidden button, the section of wall silently slid to one side. "Mr. Balfour has directed that the two of you are not to be disturbed during the course of your interview." The door slid shut behind me.

"So that's the way it is," I thought to myself. "Good. I've never met this guy, but my body's telling me that, if I'm not swallowing his cum in the next half-hour or so, I'll be in a world of pain. Play it cool, Janie. Don't let on how desperate you are."

Balfour was standing behind his desk, looking out through a huge plate-glass window at the rolling waves of the Pacific. He was in his mid-fifties, reasonably trim, balding on top and more than a little gray at the temples. Once I saw him in person, I realized I recognized him from news articles and TV talk-shows. "God, this guy's bona-fide famous," I thought to myself.

At the sound of my approach, he turned and smiled, motioning me towards a small seating area off to one side: a small sofa, a couple of chairs and a coffee table.

I sat on the little love-seat (appropriate anme!) and he took a seat in an armchair opposite.

"You know why you're here, of course," he said to me, with all the detachment of a businessman reading a resumé (which, it so happened, he was). "I've reached the point in my life where I've grown tired of chasing after the fairer sex. As my attorney will tell you, I'm shelling out millions each year in alimony to my ex-wives, even after the most detailed pre-nups you can imagine. I look on those monthly payments as insurance premiums, to keep my name out of the tabloids. I don't think I'm a bad sort, but anyone who knows me is well aware I'm married to my work. I make no apologies for that. I've spent my life building these companies up from nothing. I can't have a relationship dissolve again - not because I can't afford the money (I can), but because I'm tired of the whole skirt-chasing thing."

He looked -- with some longing, I thought -- at my navy-blue skirt, and at my crossed legs emerging from underneath its fabric, before continuing. Not so tired as all that, it would seem. But then again, he knows that -- unlike any other woman he's ever bedded -- I don't need to be chased.

"Back in the last century, there was an author names Erica Jong, who created controversial headlines with a book called Fear of Flying. She's the one who coined the phrase, 'zipless fuck.' What attracts me about the unique correctional program you're involved in is that it promises something very close to that. Janie, I'm impressed that you have skills as a researcher and project manager. We'll make use of those talents -- not because I don't have others in my organization who can do such things, but because it's important to me that, to all appearances, our relationship be thoroughly professional, that of a personal assistant who works very closely with her boss. That's the cover story we'll use to explain why you travel with me -- while you and I know it's because your body has certain physical needs, now, that only mine can provide."

I felt a sudden gush of wetness between my legs, at the mere suggestion.

"It's also important to me that you be on the payroll -- something I realize is by no means required by the contract I've signed with Halliburton, the government's agent -- but it's part of the cover story. You'll draw 25 grand a month, which I trust you'll find more than generous. On your way out, Ms. Ingeborg will have you sign a contract that provides for that entire amount to be deposited in an offshore account, in your name only. As long as you work for me in this intensely personal way, you will lack for nothing. You'll have no need of spending money for any purpose. Think of these payments as contributions towards a retirement fund. By the way, the contract does include a non-disclosure agreement, so that, if you should ever be so foolish as to leak anything to the media about the nature of what you and I do behind closed doors, you'll lose out, big-time. Just a word to the wise."

There was a long pause, before he looked me full in the face. Our eyes locked. "Janie, do you see that low coffee table between us? It's very sturdy. Please step up onto it, and, one item at a time, remove every article of clothing you've got on."

God, I felt sexy. Stepping up on the table, I unbuttoned my blouse and let it fall to the floor. I saw him staring hungrily at my cleavage.

Next came the bra. Unbuckling that, I let it, too, fall the floor.

My tits now hung free. They're not as firm as they used to be, but they're still firm enough. At this moment, my nipples had become so hard, it was almost painful. I gave the ol' bazoongas a little shake. He smiled.

Next came the skirt. Undoing the buttons securing it on one side, it too joined the swiftly-growing puddle of discarded clothing at my feet.

Slipping my fingers into the waistband of my pantyhose, I pulled them downwards. I watched his eyes track the descent.

Kicking off my shoes and finishing the panthose-removal operation, I now stood naked before Richard Balfour as he sat there, still fully clothed. 

He got up, walking slowly around the coffee table, inspecting me. It occurred to me that this experience had to be something like what slaves used to go through on the auction block, in pre-Civil War days. Years later, they reported feeling humiliated. The effect of the medication on my body made me feel different. I felt exhilarated.

I felt a hand settle on my right buttock, gently caressing me. Then another, reaching up and caressing my left breast. That hand cupped my tit underneath, lifting it up, feeling its heft. Then, the thumb and forefinger of that hand squeezed the nipple -- gently at first, then hard. I felt weak in the knees.

The hand resting on my butt moved downward, inserting itself between my upper thighs from behind. Slowly inserting itself through the gap between my legs, it reached upwards, the fingers covering my hairy mound, pressing inward between the lips. There was a brief moment of resistance due to lack of lubrication, before two fingers broke through into the smooth, damp silkiness within.

Then, the caressing hands left me. My Master walked around in front of me, taking his place once again in the armchair where he'd been sitting.

"It's been a while since you've had your medicine, hasn't it, little girl?" he asked.

Silently, I nodded assent.

"It's time we did something about that. Janie, you may kneel before me, and take what sustenance you need."

Doing so, I unbuckled his belt, unzipped his pants, and reached inside. There was no doubt where to look for what I wanted. It was already tenting his trousers in front.

Pulling his rock-hard, six-inch, mushroom-headed dick out of his pants, I opened wide and let it slip slowly across my damp tongue, which curled and wrapped itself around the beautiful veined shaft of its own accord. Deep instincts were now setting in.

It didn't take him long, this first time. My Master had become so very aroused before my lips even engulfed his erection. A few moments later, uttering a deep sigh, he shot his load deep into my throat.

Feeling his cock lose its hardness and begin to diminish in size, I slowly withdrew my lips, giving the head a final, friendly lick as it went by. Then, I looked into his eyes.

He stared right back at me. Mr. Balfour and I, we had ourselves an understanding.

Opening my mouth, I let him get a good look at the shimmering, ivory-colored pool of cum within. Then, I closed my lips and, still looking deeply into his eyes, slowly and deliberately swallowed every last, precious drop.

Immediately, I began to experience the return of my sense of well-being. I felt normal again.

Reaching down, my Master took my hand, raising me to my feet. Covering my mouth with his lips, he enveloped me in a deep, tongue-probing kiss.

I felt complete. 



Take Only as Directed Ch. 09



This story takes place in the year 2029. America is a very different place. New laws have abolished personal bankruptcies and debtors' prisons have been revived. Janie, our twentysomething heroine, was about to be sentenced to just such a prison when she was tricked into signing up for a pilot program that keeps her in a kind of chemical captivity. Medicine released within her body causes debilitating nausea and other symptoms every 48 hours, unless she is administered a rescue dose of another medicine. The rescue dose is delivered through the ejaculation of the man for whom she will be a personal domestic servant, a latter-day concubine. In this episode, Janie gets better acquainted with new master, billionaire industrialist Richard Balfour for whom she is working as a Gal-Friday-with-benefits.

Read the earlier chapters if you want to know how Janie got to this point.

***

When I got back to my room, I found a new iPhone 16, along with a note from Gilpin, the butler, saying Mr. Balfour wanted me to have it. I opened it eagerly, and spent the rest of the day setting it up.

From time to time, my thoughts would wander to my experience of the previous night. Stepping up onto of my Master's coffee table, like some newly-animated statue mounting her pedestal. Stripping off, and letting him examine every part of my body with approval. Feeling his stiff cock pass my moist lips, inch by inch, until that glorious moment when my mouth was filled with the precious nectar his body had prepared for mine.

Like an addict mooning over the memory of her last fix, my memories kept returning to the sight of Mr. Balfour's sturdy erection. Its slight upward curve as it emerged from the dense tangle of graying pubic hair. The hefty ball-sac beneath, loaded with the medicinal treasure my body was crying for. The way it bounced a little, up and down, as his tightening muscles strove to raise it even higher, in the universal male salute to the naked female form.

I used to think penises were odd and funny-looking. In the girl's locker room back in high school, they'd been the subject of endless quips and jokes, as we speculated about the endowments of various boys we knew. Back then, we girls felt a mixture of repulsion and fascination, as we envisioned those shriveled, wrinkle-skinned sausages, swaying from side to side as their naked owners walked along – not that any of us had seen many of them, at that stage of our young lives. We all pretended to know more than we did.

That all changed, of course, as we grew older. As I moved into and out of various relationships with men in my late teens and early twenties, I came to frankly appreciate the pleasure a hard dick could bring me. I learned I couldn't just lie there on my back, legs splayed wide, letting the man have his way with me (though on occasion that could be a spicy diversion, playing out a fantasy scenario). No, I had to take charge. Gripping his member, hard, through the trouser material. Pulling down the zipper and reaching into the shadowed man-cave within. Freeing it from its captivity, so it came to rest in the palm of my hand. I learned to love the feel of it: the incredibly soft skin stretched over the inner hardness; the way it throbbed and twitched; the measure of control I had over the angle of its dangle, under the ministrations of my encircling fingers and, later, my lips and tongue.

It wasn't until the following evening that I heard from my Master again. Hearing my new iPhone chirp, I saw a simple text illuminated on the screen: "Door is unlocked."

He didn't say which door, but I didn't need to ask. He could only mean the door at the back of my walk-in cedar closet, the one that connected to a corresponding door at the back of his. Those two connecting closets formed a sort of secret passage, conveniently linking our rooms – and, our bodies.

How was I to interpret the text? Was it a summons to come immediately and service him? Or simply a notification that he wanted me tonight, and I should plan to pad in later, naked, and crawl between his sheets?

From my brief acquaintance with Richard Balfour, it could have been either. For a man who essentially owned me, body and soul, he had exercised far more kindness towards me than I could ever have expected. He offered me a generous salary, beyond the parameters of his contract with the government. He talked to me like a real person, not some flesh-and-blood version of an inflatable sex-toy. Even when he was lustily examining my body, running his inquisitive, middle-aged fingers over my pliant flesh, he seemed to be tracking my reactions to his touch, as if they mattered to him. So, I didn't take his cryptic text to be an imperious command.

Still, our relationship was new. If, on his side of the conjoined cedar closets, his experience today had been anything like my own, he'd been spending a good deal of time thinking of me, wondering where I was and what I was doing. Not to mention re-living the roaring orgasm of the day before (his had come at the moment of ejaculation; mine was delayed until I was back in my room, reclining in the jacuzzi, directing throbbing jets of water to my swollen clit and labia).

My instincts told me not to delay (not that I wanted to). Maybe the summons was implicit, but I was reasonably sure it was a summons. Were he sitting there stroking a hard-on, I surely didn't want to waste it.

My only question was, how to make my entrance? Would he want to see me nude, emerging from his closet like some wardrobe nymph? Or would he take more pleasure in disrobing me himself? The laconic, three-word text told me very little.

What if someone were in the bedroom with him – Gilpin, for example, getting some last-minute instructions for the day to come? I'd certainly look the fool, emerging from the closet and flashing my curly brown muff at the gay butler.

I decided to compromise. Stripping down to my birthday suit, I walked into the closet, then pulled on a red-silk kimono-style bathrobe I'd seen hanging there. I immediately liked the way my nipples felt, caressed by the luxurious material until they grew hard – and the hint of cleavage that still showed, after I'd knotted the cord around my waist. I padded barefoot towards the door at the other end of the closet, reached for the knob and turned it.

It gave no resistance. Opening the door, I stepped into the slightly musty, leathery-smelling darkness of my Master's closet. The spicy-sweet aroma of the cedar paneling was the prevailing scent, of course, but I could also detect a subtle male odor that came from his hanging clothing.

The door on the opposite side was ajar, letting in a sliver of light that allowed me to see where I was going, inside the darkened closet.

Making for the door, I leaned into it and walked into my Master's bedroom for the first time.

It was a very large room, spread over several split levels. Dominating the room were the plate-glass windows that looked out over the Pacific. There was a seating area with small couch and several comfortable chairs; a workstation with computer equipment; a glass partition, beyond which there was what looked like a sauna and a hot tub; and, against the wall opposite the windows, an imposing canopy bed. You could just about live in this bedroom, I thought to myself. If sex were your thing, here you could indulge every sort of appetite.

Lying on the bed, fully dressed, propped up on some pillows as he worked a TV remote, was Richard Balfour. Glimpsing my movement out of the corner of his eye, he looked at me, smiled, and patted the bed beside him a couple of times. Following his lead, I walked over. Still wearing the silk robe, I climbed up onto the bed and sat beside him to his left, crossing my legs at the ankles.

"How was your day?" he asked.

Conversation. What a concept!

I told him. And he told me of things he'd been doing – as though we were some seasoned couple catching up on the minutiae of one another's lives, rather than a pair whose acquaintance so far had mostly been limited to my sucking on his dick.

We were very aware – at least I was – that there was something more that united us. It was that chemical bond. The tangled circumstances that had transported me from prison cell into my Master's mansion – and now on this bed, beside him – had also caused us to leap over all those early stages of a relationship: the looking-over, the sizing-up, the tentative touch. What need had we of such preliminaries, those little flirtations that constitute courtship? There was no question of where this was headed. We were predestined.

I found that oddly liberating. No need to wonder what the other was thinking, how the night might end. I knew his cock would penetrate at least one of my bodily orifices, if not several, and I'd receive the dose my body needed.

I also knew I was going to enjoy it. A lot. 

As we exchanged small talk, I felt the fingers of his left hand come to rest on my upper thigh. Still engaging in casual conversation, he began to gently caress my skin. There was no option of "no" on my part. He would do with my body as he wanted, no questions, no apologies.

I could feel myself getting wet.

Gently he pulled aside my robe, exposing my right breast. He bent down and touched it, tentatively, with his tongue. From my sharp intake of breath, he knew he'd found his mark. He circled the hardening nipple a few times, then flicked it back and forth with his tongue. When his teeth gently clamped down on the nipple, pulling it upwards, I moaned.

Meanwhile, his fingers were doing the walking up my inner thigh, parting the silky robe as they went. Two fingers, then three, found their way through the curls of my hairy mound, to the damp atrium of my compliant love canal.

I couldn't let this go unreciprocated.

Tilting my head towards his, I looked straight into his eyes. He regarded mine for a moment, as well, falling silent. Opening my mouth, I moved my lips towards his. He met me halfway, kissing me gently but earnestly, his tongue begging and obtaining passage between my lips.

I wrapped my lips around his tongue and sucked, hard. He liked that. I did it again.

Reaching over, I began to undo the buttons of his shirt. Hastily, now, he overtook me and finished the job, pulling the shirt off and casting it to the floor. I'd already moved on to his belt buckle, and then the trouser button beneath it. Saying not a word, merely arching his back, he invited me to pull his trousers off. Your wish is my command, Sahib.

At that moment, I leaned back, kneeling before him. One tit was already hanging out of the robe. I swiftly undid the knot, allowing its twin to join it. I shimmied the robe off my shoulders and just knelt there, aware of the way my tits preceded the rest of me, two hard-nippled love-ambassadors making their not-so-formal introductions.

"Janie, I have to tell you something. I know you're supposed to be the one with the chemical hunger, but just knowing I'm the only one who can satisfy you is incredibly arousing. It's all I've been able to think about. I was Skyping for nearly an hour this afternoon with Senator Chelsea Clinton, discussing international currency markets, but all I could think about was, well, these.

He covered each of my tits with the palm of a hand, fingers stretched wide, trying and failing to encompass the soft mound.

"And, this."

Reaching between my upper thighs, his unerring middle finger found its way between my fleshy gates, sinking itself deep within. "Ooooh," I shivered. "G-spot."

He winked, then kissed me again.

I'd like to say we made our experimental way around that fantastic bedroom of his, contorting our bodies into acrobatic positions on every piece of furniture, but in fact he just pushed me backwards onto the bed, lifted my ankles to his shoulders, and fucked me, missionary position. Sometimes his attack was exquisitely slow, making us both intensely aware of his member's slow slide into the moist pool of my desire. Other times, his rapid-fire strokes beat out a drumroll of ecstatic abandon. When he came, at last, it was with a deep, primeval growl, as he ground his pelvic bone downwards against my hairy mound.

I came, too, though how many times I couldn't tell you. One orgasm flowed into the next, the peak of one wave forming the trough of the next.

When everything was screwed and done, I just lay there on my back, breathing hard, arms and legs spread wide, my Master's sweaty body covering my own – until, at last, his softened penis bowed and scraped its way backwards, out of my not-so-secret garden.

What next? Would he send me back through the double closet, to the solitude of my own room – as Gilpin had predicted he was likely to do? His breathing calmed, until he rolled off me, and hugged me firmly to himself. There we both lay, until sleep overcame us, which was not long.



Take Only as Directed Ch. 10



This story takes place in the year 2029. America is a very different place. New laws have abolished personal bankruptcies and debtors' prisons have been revived. Janie, our twentysomething heroine, was about to be sentenced to just such a prison when she was tricked into signing up for a pilot program that keeps her in a kind of chemical captivity. Medicine released within her body causes debilitating nausea and other symptoms every 48 hours, unless she is administered a rescue dose of another medicine. The rescue dose is delivered through the ejaculation of the man for whom she will be a personal domestic servant, a latter-day concubine. In this episode, Janie settles into life with her master, billionaire industrialist Richard Balfour for whom she is working as a Gal-Friday-with-benefits.

Read the earlier chapters if you want to know how Janie got to this point.

***

As wild and unpredictable as my life had been these past weeks since entering the program, it felt comforting – even normal – to enter into a sort of routine with Richard. For large parts of the day he left me to my own devices, but then some message would come from him, inviting me to come walking through that closet that connected my bedroom from his.

At times he asked me to come in and help him with his work. He'd have me sit at his computer and sort email messages, even compose some replies on his behalf. At first, he wanted to read these over before I clicked "send," but in time he came to trust me with them. These were not multi-million-dollar negotiations, mind you, just routine correspondence, but still it gave me a sense of satisfaction that he trusted me.

The same went for me, with respect to him. I'd come to appreciate him as a tender and gentle lover, always considerate of my comfort and feelings. He could have raped me whenever he felt like it – I would have put up with it if that's what it took to get his semen inside me – but I could tell such raw violence was no turn-on for him.

Still, I came to learn Richard had certain sexual tastes which definitely deserved the label "kinky." By then, I was hooked on him like a junkie craving her fix, so I would have done just about anything that resulted in his pumping his cum down my throat, or spreading my legs wide and impaling me on that rock-hard cock of his.

It began one day when I was sitting at the computer, sorting email messages for him. "Janie," he said, looking me straight in the eye for the longest time. "I have something for you." He reached into his pants pocket. His hand emerged, the fingers opened, and there I saw, balanced on his open palm, a dog collar.

"Let me explain the circumstances under which you will wear this," he went on. "Its use is entirely voluntary. Yet, when you buckle this collar around your neck, you are telling me your body is mine, that it exists solely for my pleasure, that anything I do to you is all right with you, as long as it brings me pleasure."

His eyes met mine for a moment. He could see a hint of fear in them, so he went on: "You should know by now that, although you are my concubine, I care deeply for you. I would do nothing to cause you serious pain, nor give you any disfiguring injury. Yet even so, as I've explored not only your bodily orifices but also your inner spirit, I've come to realize there is something of the submissive in you. This goes beyond the control I exercise through the chemical compounds that flow from my body to yours. You really enjoy being my concubine, don't you?" He reached down and lifted my chin with the fingers of his other hand, the one not holding the dog collar. "Am I right about that?"

I blushed and, ever so slowly, nodded my head.

"I thought so. Now, my Janie, I want you to give yourself to me wholly and utterly. You will give to me not only your body, but also your inner self, your spirit. The way you will show me this is truly what you want is by taking this collar and putting it on."

I gazed back at him, knowing I was blushing even more. My mouth was dry. I was trembling slightly.

"This is not something I expect of you as a condition of your employment. If you decline to wear the collar, our relationship will continue as before. I will give you what your body needs, and in exchange you will strip and spread for me, or open that pretty little mouth of yours to swallow my prick. Yet if you do choose to put it on, it will make me very happy."

I began to breathe hard. An unexpected thrill of excitement came over me, in anticipation of what would come next – though I really had no idea what would come next.

I looked down and saw the dog collar in his open hand, an invitation to a new level of depravity. I can't recall making the conscious decision. As though I were outside my own body, I watched as my hand reached out to his and picked up the collar. Then, my eyes fixed on his, I buckled it around my neck.

He smiled and chuckled. "I thought so. I thought you'd do it. My God, Janie, you horny creature, you turn me on! Now, get those clothes off. I have plans for that pretty little body of yours."

Without a word, I stood up from the swivel chair, unbuttoning my blouse as I did. I shrugged it off my shoulders, letting it fall to the ground. My bra followed. My breasts swung free, as I reached back to unzip the short skirt I had on. I was wearing no panties. I stood naked before him, save for the low-rise sandals on my feet.

It was then I noticed he had picked up something else and was holding it in his hands. It was a leash. Smiling a wicked little smile and looking deeply into my eyes, he reached up and clipped the leash to my collar. As I heard the click, I knew a new era of my life had begun.

I felt the tug, sharp and insistent. It told me to follow him over to the sofa, where he sat down. "Across my knees, little one."

Climbing onto the couch, I draped myself across his lap, face-down, exposing my naked ass to his eyes and hands.

He began by stroking my butt-cheeks with a soft, circular caress. Then, to my chagrin, I felt his hand leave my ass. A brief pause, then a moment later, I felt the stinking pain of his slap. I jumped a little, then whimpered.

He reached down and lovingly stroked the red imprint of his palm that I was sure must have just appeared. "Does that hurt, Janie? I know it does. I also know it's what you want."

"He's right," I told myself, in silence. "This is what I want."

Thwack! Another slap, this time to the left cheek. I jumped, then sighed a little, to tell him yes indeed, he was right, I did want it. He stroked the area of my pain, his fingers softly dimpling the reddening skin.

Richard repeated the procedure, his open palm descending with a rush of air to administer the stinging slap, his fingers returning moments later to caress the scene of his crime.

When he'd had enough of that, he instructed me to get up, walk into the closet, open a certain drawer, and bring him what I found inside it. Going to the drawer he'd indicated, I slid it open. It was empty, except for a tube of desensitizing lube and a black plastic butt-plug. I gasped as I saw it, swallowed hard, then picked them both up. I walked over to where Richard was still sitting, knelt before him, and offered both items up to him in my outstretched palms.

"Good girl," said he. Taking the butt-plug and the lube-tube from me, he indicated with a gesture that I was to stretch my naked body across his lap once again. I did so, then felt him spread my butt-cheeks apart with one hand. A moment's pause, then I felt the cool shock of the desensitizing gel, pooling in the fleshy depression of my anal rosebud.

A finger pressed the gel inward, then swirled it around the entrance. He repeated that procedure several times, until my asshole was slick and wet. One finger became two, then three. It was only then that I felt the tip of the butt-plug, pressing the twin globes of my derriere further apart. With a circular motion and concerted pressure, he inserted it, inch by inch. The pain grew intense. I started breathing quickly. A single tear fell from my eye, landing on the sofa.

Then, abruptly, the pain was over. The thickest part of the butt-plug had passed my sphincter, that had snapped shut to grip it tightly.

Richard pushed me off his lap, then stood, pulling me to my feet in front of him. His mouth covered mine, his teeth nibbling on my lips with a ferocity I had yet to encounter from him. I felt fully within his power.

And I loved it.



Take Only as Directed Ch. 11



This story takes place in the year 2029. America is a very different place. New laws have abolished personal bankruptcies and debtors' prisons have been revived. Janie, our twentysomething heroine, was about to be sentenced to just such a prison when she was tricked into signing up for a pilot program that keeps her in a kind of chemical captivity. Medicine released within her body causes debilitating nausea and other symptoms every 48 hours, unless she is administered a rescue dose of another medicine. The rescue dose is delivered through the ejaculation of the man for whom she will be a personal domestic servant, a latter-day concubine. In this episode, Janie's concubinage takes on a decidedly submissive tone, and no one is more surprised than Janie at how much she enjoys it.

Read the earlier chapters if you want to know how Janie got to this point. 

***

"Janie, I need you to attend my bath."

"Hello. Here's a different angle," I said to myself, even as I felt the humid, hairy cavern between my legs grow suddenly very moist. What does it mean to "attend" a bath? Where I come from, a party is what you attend. Or a concert. Or a college class. Never a bath.

Another text followed hard on the heels of that one: "Wear your collar. Nothing else."

I smiled. So this is what it's come to. In little more than a month, I've gone from an independent-minded working girl, struggling to make her own way in the big city, to an erotic version of one of Pavlov's dogs. The virtual bell rings, and my cunt starts to drip. Go figure.

A word like "cunt" would have seldom entered my mind, in days gone by -- unless it was part of some rest-room graffiti I'd idly read while sitting on the john, balled-up toilet paper in hand, or an insult I'd heard some man mutter under his breath. I always thought it an especially vulgar shard of vocabulary. Now, it was fast become one of my anatomical terms of choice. My master, Richard Balfour, didn't teach me to use it. It seemed to well up from my very being, as my sexual servitude grew deeper.

"Cunt" is a word tailor-made for women like me. Not that I consider myself "a cunt" -- that's a truly demeaning expression I don't think I'll ever get comfortable with -- but it does evoke the image of a body part exquisitely designed, complete with its own efficient lubrication system, for sheathing an erect cock. ("Cock" isn't a word I would have used much in my former life, either, but things do change when your entire body has become the playground of hormones, aphrodisiacs, and God knows what else Halliburton has mixed up, shaken and poured out into that blessed chemical cocktail.)

Without a word, I began to walk towards the cedar closet, the one whose concealed inner door opened into my master's closet.

As I walked, I began to shed my clothing. First, the Hooters t-shirt -- a little joke of Gilpin, the butler, who had helped stock my wardrobe, and was one of the few members of the household staff who knew my work as the boss' gal Friday came "with benefits."

Then, the lacy black bra.

Then, I unsnapped my pair of hip-hugging denim pedal-pushers, stopping for a moment to wiggle my tight little butt out of them. There I let 'em lie, right in the middle of the carpet.

I stepped out of the flip-flops on my feet.

Finally, I hooked two thumbs inside my tighty-whitey panties and, in a practiced gesture, pulled them down to my knees, stepping out of them as well.

By the time I'd done this, I was in front of the closet door. Opening it, I flipped on the light and stepped inside. Reaching up to a high shelf, I found the dog collar and buckled it around my neck. Thus clad -- or unclad -- I felt ready for my session of bath-attendance, whatever that meant.

As I pushed the hanging clothing aside and opened the door into Mr. Balfour's expansive bedroom -- which was more like some grand apartment, entire unto itself -- I saw Himself sitting at the computer desk, talking on his cell phone.

He raised his eyebrows a little, at the sound of the opening door, and glanced up at me for just a moment, before looking down again at his work. He waved his arm in a vague gesture, directing me to his private bathroom.

As I walked away from him towards the bathroom door, I could feel his eyes on my back -- or, my backside, to be more precise. I gave those rounded cheeks of mine a little extra swing, as I leisurely strolled away from him. Nothing too obvious. Just a slight flourish, to distract him from that phone call that was so important, it had intruded on his personal nookie-time.

I knew he was watching, that old horn-dog.

That's OK, I thought to myself. I wasn't ready for him, anyway. Even with its state-of-the-plumber's-art pumps and jets, that huge, marble tub took a fair amount of time to fill.

Which is exactly what I did next: turning on the gold-plated taps, testing the water temperature, selecting something very special from the array of bath-salts bottles and jars arrayed on the shelf, lighting a scented candle or two. A touch-panel on the wall let me choose from a series of music playlists especially chosen -- by Gilpin? By a former wife or lover? By Balfour himself? -- to enhance the Chairman's bathing experience.

I sat my cheeks down on a small bench, my spine erect, both feet flat on the floor, my hands folded in my lap. Like I was perched on a settee at some old-fashioned girls' finishing-school, except for the fact that I was wearing not a stitch of clothing and was sporting a dog-collar around my neck.

I didn't have to wait long. I like to think it was the soft curve of my buttocks, the tight muscles of the back of my thighs, the wiry wisp of pubic hair he could just glimpse, hanging down between them, that had caused his dick to rise, that had enticed him to wrap up his phone call and hustle that athletic, fiftysomething bod of his into the bathroom and fuck me.

If that, was, indeed, what "attending" his bath meant. I would soon find out.

Balfour came in, wearing the white terrycloth bathrobe he favored for everyday use. He was all business. Dropping his robe, he walked over to the tub, flaccid dick swinging from side to side, and stepped in, walking down the sunken steps until he'd immersed himself in the warm, soapy water. He slid over to a place where he could sit back against the side of the tub, resting his head on a folded towel I had placed there for his comfort.

Comfort. That was what I was all about, in this new life of mine. I understand the Japanese used to run brothels for their soldiers in captured territories, during the Second World War. They called the local women they forced to work there "comfort girls." I knew that, if I kept Richard Balfour's personal comfort -- his very personal comfort -- as my first priority, everything would be copacetic. He'd get his rocks off, and I'd get a regular injection of the chemically-enhanced semen I craved, delivered into one bodily orifice or another (it mattered not which, from the standpoint of the high I'd receive, though I had developed a certain fascination, of late, with long, sloppy, leisurely acts of fellatio).

"Is the water temperature to your satisfaction, my Lord?" (I'd started using the "Lord" appellation a few days before, when he and I were alone together, and he hadn't corrected me. I think he secretly liked its old-school subservience.)

"Yes, Janie, you do that so well. You do many things so very well. Things that matter a lot to me." He shot me a little smile.

I smiled back, and felt a flush rise to my cheeks, like some blushing schoolgirl on her first date. Whatever chemicals those were, pumping through my veins, they ramped up the personal bond between Richard and me to no end. They truly made me desire nothing more than to please him.

"Come," he said, beckoning with one finger.

I stepped into the softly-bubbling water, descending the steps. I stumbled a little on the last one, causing my large, natural tits to swing from side to side as I struggled to regain my balance.

They weren't a young, nubile girl's breasts. To be perfectly frank, they sagged a bit, and the right one was a little larger than the left, if you truly scrutinized them. As Richard most certainly had, not long after I'd come into his employ. But he confessed to me, one evening when his faced was buried between my two dear girls, that he preferred them that way.

"I like a woman who's a real woman," he'd said at the time. "Not some sculpted product of the plastic surgeon's art."

Good thing. I've never had plastic surgery in my life. What you see is what you've always been able to see -- if I stand before you naked -- and what you see is what you get.

I settled in beside him, spooning my thighs up against his, and running my fingers through the graying, wet hairs on his chest. I never pictured myself doing the nasty with a guy so much older than me, but God, I loved what the slippery feel of his skin up against mine did to me.

"Would you like me to wash you, Master?"

"Yes, my dear girl, I'd like nothing better."

He stood, and I reached for a natural sponge sitting at the edge of the tub. Dipping it into the water, I used it to make the soapsuds cascade down his hairy chest, his muscled abdomen, his tree-trunk thighs -- and, yes, the softly-twitching love-organ hanging between them. I scrubbed his body from head to mid-thigh, as high as the bubbling bath-water reached. I used my fingertips to massage soapy, scented lotions into his skin.

When I was done caressing every other part of him, I coated my index finger with a scented lubricant and gently inserted it between his ass-cheeks. His sphincter offered vain resistance at first, but I refused to take its prudish no for an answer. Redoubling my gentle invasion, I gained entrance to the inner recesses, pressing it into him as far as it would go.

He sighed a deep, soul-releasing sigh.

What an intimate thing it is for one lover to do to another, to insinuate even a tiny finger into that dark cavern that we've been taught is so taboo. Never has Richard asked me to perform this service for him, yet never has he refused the offer.

A real man, a man with a sense of who he truly is, will not object to this. Or so I think, anyway. The sigh of deep relaxation that inevitably ensues is a sign of a surrender, of sorts -- the ultimate act of turning one's body over to someone very dear, to let that one give you pleasure.

I gently stroked the bulge of his prostate with my fingertip. He sighed again.

I knew, by now, that Richard's formerly flaccid penis would be in that state no longer. Reaching around with my other hand, I grasped hold of his member, and began to stroke it, slowly, from its soft-mushroom head to the forest of pubic hair out of which it had arisen.

Feeling him go weak in the knees at these ministrations, I turned him around and pressed him softly backwards, through the swirling waters, until the back of his calves came up against the submerged bench that ran the length of the tub. He knew what to do.

Rather than sitting down, he stepped up with one leg. Reluctantly removing my finger from his anus, I held tight to his rigid member.

Richard sat down on the side of the tub, his lower legs still in the scented water. I knelt down on the lower step and bent forward at the waist, angling his dick upward to meet the descending "O" of my open lips.

Giving him a little lick on the soft head to get started, I engulfed his hard-on with my lips, letting it slide deep into the back of my throat and back again. Erect, Richard's dick is average-sized (at least according to my limited past experience), which is just fine with me. Blowjobs are no fun if they make you choke. It really is true that it doesn't take a honking big phallus to generate the clitoral friction that's the ticket to multiple orgasms.

The old adage is true. It's all in how you use it. For my money, Richard Balfour is an accomplished practitioner of the art.

As I soon discovered when, after many long minutes of my oral satisfaction and his, he gently pressed my head up and away, and pulled me close to him. I was still in a kneeling position. He wrapped his arms around me and pulled me into a tight embrace. Pressing his lips hard up against mine, he inserted his tongue deep into the soft, wet tunnel where his throbbing cock had so recently been accommodated.

I felt my muscles go slack. I'm a sucker for a good kiss. Or, I suppose, a kisser after a good suck.

Sliding back down into the tub, he gently led me by the hand, over to the side of the tub where there's no submerged bench. Locking into eye contact with me for an instant, he placed his hands firmly on my ample hips, and began to turn me around. He kept looking into my eyes until the last possible moment, and what I saw there, in that fleeting, non-verbal communication, was purest lust.

Ah, lust. Love is surely a wonderful thing. But, just as surely, lust is underrated. I'm not sure I'd use the word "love" to describe the overpowering feeling radiating from every part of my Master's body that day, to be absorbed by my physical being -- and, yes, it was reciprocated on my part -- but that other L-word surely does the job. Yes, indeed. And I like it.

Pressing his hand to the middle of my back, Richard gently bent me forward at the waist, away from him. Oh, good, I thought to myself. Doggy-style. I dearly love doggy-style. Standing there at the deep end of the tub, I leaned my elbows on the marble tiles in front of me and clasped my hands together.

Isn't it strange that this part of "assuming the position" is so much like an attitude of prayer? Yes, I suppose it is prayer of a sort, a heartfelt intercession offered to the god, or goddess, of love. Not a single word is required. "Make me whole," my body was saying. "Make me complete. Make us one."

What ensued is exactly what you'd expect. The soft head of his penis pressed up against the equally soft skin of my derriere. It dallied for a few moments between my butt-cheeks, giving me a tantalizing hint of anal delights (perhaps) yet to come, but on this particular occasion the target sought by the Chairman of the Board of Balfour Enterprises was just a little bit lower.

I was more than wet enough for him by now. Had been for quite some time. His dick encountered no resistance whatsoever as my copious lubricating-juices welcomed it home, as he sheathed it to the hilt, unsheathed it, then sheathed it again. All the time, his hands kneaded my jiggling breasts, the satiny water of the bath creating a smooth and most hypnotic effect.

One of the things I truly appreciate about an older lover is how he knows there is truly no hurry about this primal exercise. Sure, there's something to be said for the pussy-pounding exuberance of youth, but there's something even more engaging about the slow and steady rhythm, ever-so-slowly building towards the inevitable climax.

My climaxes began almost as soon as this man entered me, and continued, one banging arrival after another, until my dear Mr. Balfour pressed his cock as deeply into me as it would go, and with a groan unleashed his balls' entire accumulation into my welcoming pussy.

I didn't have to wait for long. That warm glow of the chemical cocktail began to do its work. Don't get me wrong, the orgasms were great -- all of them, and I lost count -- but there's something about this new delight, this modern-day love-potion delivered into the deepest part of myself, that dwarfs the ordinary pleasure of sex.

I don't think Richard fully appreciates what he does to me, as he opens his genital floodgates and lets that creamy libation explode inside me. He doesn't have any idea. How could he? Nobody knows, I suppose, except my fellow-members of the sisterhood of the penal pussy, who have experienced the inrush of carefully-crafted medication, that bonds with the formula already circulating inside our own bloodstreams, that sets the brain's pleasure-centers a-humming.

I sighed an unbelievably deep sigh. Richard laughed out loud at the thought that his humble little dick had brought a woman such a rumbling, rolling tsunami of pleasure.

I could barely stand. He led me gently by the hand, up the steps of the tub, and tenderly toweled me off. There was no question of my attending his bath now. He was attending mine, and he seemed to love doing it.

Leaning down and reaching a powerful arm around my waist, he lifted me to his shoulder, my head and arms flopping like a rag-doll floozy against his back, my butt-cheeks pointing triumphantly to the ceiling, his one hand resting firmly upon them.

I was barely conscious as he walked us out of the bathroom, into the alcove that contains his king-sized bed, then dropped me onto the mattress' soft embrace. Climbing in beside me, he spooned his body up against mine, his now-softened penis insinuating itself between my ass-cheeks. He gently massaged my breast with his hand.

Our sighs of contentment were all the lullaby we needed.