Slave Wife (3 page)

Then Emeline’s fingers reached around and took the garter belt. Karen was disoriented, uncomfortably yet at the same time enticingly aware of the warm, dazzling femininity encircling her body like the stretchy lace.

The garment pulled tightly at her waist as Emeline hooked it around her. The woman smoothed the lace, giving the bulges at her waist a little pinch in the process. Karen felt the long nails delicately graze her skin as they tugged the panties over her round bottom.

For a moment, Emeline’s palm lingered on the fleshy swell in an incipient semblance of a pat. Karen heard her sigh. “I’m afraid, Cherie, we’re going to have to work hard to rid you of this fat.” Her tone became reproving, like Karen’s father’s when he thought she wasn’t listening, “You will work with me on this, won’t you? You know Michael will not tolerate any less.”

The humiliation once again surging through Karen quickly turned to anxiety. Was Michael trying to control her life? What did he want from her? She felt like running – she looked down at her body – but she was almost naked and had very little money. Would they let her get her clothes? Another blush of chagrin rose up as she remembered her shoes in the trash. How would she get home? Shame filled her. She’d have to call her parents. What would they think of her?

Emeline seemed to sense her distress. “Don’t worry, dear, we’ll make it fun. Think how wonderful Michael’s generosity is. You’ll have beautiful new clothes,” she touched Karen’s hair, “a new hairstyle, everything new and tres elegantes, tres belles. Now, why don’t you put on the stockings and we’ll find you a dress and some exquisite shoes.”

Karen knew she should be thrilled but instead felt utterly helpless. She yearned to escape and didn’t know how … or why for that matter. So she simply complied.

Emeline prodded her to sit on the bed. “The stocking are pulled on like pantyhose, only one at a time.” She watched as Karen struggled not to tear the fragile mesh. “Very good. Now the other. Now we hook them like this.” Emeline demonstrated how to slip one cloth covered dimple through its metal loop and slide it into place.

She took Karen’s hands in hers, helped her to her feet and led her to a mirror. “Now let’s look at you.”

Karen looked at her skin, which she’d always thought so nice and smooth, bulging over the too-tight edges of the lingerie. Emeline’s perfect slimness floated next to her bulk in her vision’s periphery. Though Emeline made no comment, Karen could feel her disapproval. The girl yearned to protest, “I’m not fat! I’m just healthy! Everyone says so. Everyone says how pretty I am … and I’m a cheerleader! I couldn’t be a cheerleader if I was fat!”

At last, Emeline raised her slim shoulders and tossed her head in an elegant shrug that Karen knew represented defeat. “Well, let’s find you a dress.” The woman strode to the closet and began sorting through a dozen hanging garments all, even the few patterned outfits, in unobtrusive though lush colours. Again the shrug as she separated one padded hanger. “This will have to do.”

Karen hesitantly touched the fabric. The insubstantial black wool was as soft as clouds under her fingertips. In an instant, her upset vanished under the dress’ magic spell. Blissfully, eagerly, she looked into Emeline’s face. “I can really put this on?”

Emeline smiled benevolently down from her heels’ height. “Cherie, it’s for you.” She waved her arm in a ballerina’s gesture. “These are all for you.”

Karen stepped into the dress and Emeline helped – struggled – with the rear zipper. Karen’s joy dissolved and then disappeared entirely. Her voice was almost inaudible. “Won’t it go up?”

“Breathe in,” was Emeline’s reply. Karen sucked in her stomach and, at last, the zipper closed. The dress was so tight around her waist and back she was afraid to let her breath out for fear of bursting the zipper. Again she heard Emeline’s sigh but her only comment was, “Now shoes.”

Karen looked dubiously at the proffered black pumps. They were beautiful but the heels were so high she didn’t know if she could walk in them. She also couldn’t bend to put them on so Emeline had to help. She tottered to the mirror and looked at herself. Despite the dress’ tightness she thought she looked so ladylike.

She turned to find Emeline but the woman had slipped from the bedroom. Karen started toward the glass doors but stopped when she heard the accented voice. “I’m sorry, Michael. It’s the best I can do in this little time. I think you should eat in the suite tonight.”

Then Michael’s curt reply. “I’ve already ordered.”

Karen wanted to shed the beautiful clothes and run. Too late. Emeline opened wide the glass doors, Michael at her side.

He did not try to hide his dissatisfaction. She surprised herself by being angry, until he smiled warmly at her and she was overwhelmed by the desire to please him. He took her hand and she peered helplessly up at him. “Don’t worry, my dear. By the time Emeline is finished you will be exquisite.”

“Yes,” she thought, “I want to be exquisite … for him.” She almost didn’t mind his criticisms over dinner.

The man’s office was a windowless off-white box filled with grey metal, and that was how he liked it. His desk and the dozen steel filing cabinets lining two walls were covered with orderly clusters and piles of project descriptions, schematics and multitudinous manuals randomly weighted by odd configurations of gleaming stainless steel and plastic.

A thin tap barely penetrated the heavy steel door. “Come in.”

The woman, one of the facility’s few female engineers, was more than ten years his senior but her lowered
head
and hunched shoulders were obviously obsequious. With a dry but pleasant smile, he nodded her to one of the two armless straight-backed chairs facing his. Keeping his visage severely neutral he smiled inwardly, enjoying her expression – half supplication, half barely restrained eagerness.

She sat, her dark skirt pulled primly over her tightly coupled knees and a large binder covering her lap. “Could you please give me some help with the
Adams
arm? The interfaces seem to be off by several millimetres.”

He smiled meaningfully, directly into her eyes, challenging her to tell him the truth. When she dropped her eyes after too long a silence, he stood and came around his desk. He positioned himself so close behind her that her clipped brown hair brushed his starched white shirt front and her extraordinary flush of heat radiated across his abdomen.

“Yes, I’ll help you,” he said, forcing her head back to his chest with one thick hand pressed flat against her throat. He looked down into her face, experiencing a pleasurable frisson at his control. Her closed eyelids, he noticed, were completely devoid of the makeup that would probably have transformed her drab plainness. Not even lipstick. With some makeup she could be quite attractive – he smiled complacently – even slutty. Well, he’d definitely fix that.

With the other hand, he reached inside her white lab coat underneath her traditional white silk Brooks Brother blouse and pulled one of her breasts into his sight. She moaned as he rolled her pretty pink nipple between his thumb and forefinger and his cock surged against his trousers. It was her submission to him he found arousing, he realized, not her body, despite its hapless virginity.

Inadvertently, her knees spread slightly and he caught the motion. He released her breast and throat, lifted the binder from her lap and placed it on his desktop. His voice was dispassionate. “That’s right. Show me.”

The woman blushed an unattractive mottled pink but she pulled her skirt to her hips and spread her legs. She was wearing only a lacy black garter belt and stockings – no panties. She peered at him from under long lashes, searching hungrily for a sign of his approval.

Instead he reached into his pants pocket and extracted two small coils of white rope. Her breathing laboured in his ear as he stooped and tied each ankle cruelly tight to a metal chair leg. Her eyes skittered anxiously toward the door. Of course he understood her thought. “What if someone comes in?” But that was part of it, wasn’t it?

He returned to his seat. Before he focused on the binder’s contents he gave her what he knew she wanted. For a moment he watched her fingers make their way to her exposed vagina, shiny with moisture in the industrial lighting, and begin to manipulate her clitoris. For only a moment. Not too much, he thought coldly. Like the others, she had to be trained. Though his eyes fixed on the diagrams open before him, he briefly considered what her next tasks would entail.

Then he plunged into the arm’s mechanics in actuality. Some time later – he’d been absorbed and wasn’t sure how long – he heard her restrained convulsive cries. He glanced up, his tone holding the barest trace of reward. “Good little whore. Now do it again.”

It was only a short hop from
Minneapolis
to
St. Louis
, and almost effortless in his brand new, custom-fitted Gulfstream. He sat back against the contoured leather seat, lifted a porcelain coffee cup to his blissfully curled lips and examined, once again, the delicious reports on his lap.

Michael found his new little jewel of a corporate acquisition as enticing, at least, as his recently acquired fiancée. The company contained such remarkable talent! And even without his guidance, already had such promising contracts! He could have cum when he was told of the Top Secret
CIA
/FBI interagency project, cum as surely as he had when he assfucked Emeline the night before.

The image of her bent over the open toilet broke across the printed pages. He saw his own thick fingers dig into the delicate shoulders – hard enough to mark but, of course, she didn’t complain – and force her head down above, not quite into, the urine-filled bowl. His urine and hers. The thought of his egalitarianism evinced a malevolent smile. Her spinal column flexed and the gently defined shoulder muscles swelled but she didn’t resist.

Almost as an afterthought he’d turned her and brutally rammed his cock down her long throat, forcing her head closer to the yellow toilet water. He never allowed her to gag. She just had to take it. If she didn’t – he smiled at the memory of her one restrained convulsion last night – with one hand he gripped the shining dark hair hard enough to rip out and viciously slapped her face with the other before he continued. He didn’t worry about bruises. She was expert with makeup.

Really her narrow taut body was exceptional, even down to the breasts – he visualized the pendant forms compressed against the bowl’s edge – full and perfectly shaped without artificial augmentation. Once, when she was younger, she’d been a rare prize. Then he’d ached to penetrate those exquisitely tight, baby-pink orifices, to touch the milk-white flesh. Now, though, he used her only for release. His real pleasure came from her degradation. As his cock slid between her small round buttocks, upward toward that elegant narrow spine, he’d pushed her under, watched her immaculately groomed head submerge. Mercilessly, without thought to speed or force, he penetrated her. Her anus gripped his cock but the rest remained still. For awhile. He watched as her air gave out and her body contorted under the strain.

His cock hardened. This was his real joy. He didn’t need to hold her under. He’d bought her body and soul. She’d remain till her lungs began to fill with urine, till he allowed her to rise. Only once had she emerged prematurely. He’d done nothing more than disinterestedly remind her of what she had to lose. His lips curled at the memory. One day he might test whether she’d die for him. His skin quivered with disgust. How he wanted to damage her, to destroy the filth! He imagined his long cock actually penetrating her back along her spinal column, violating flesh and bone. His hand moved unthinkingly over his hard shaft.

The whore! His sensual lips dropped downward into a frown. She was nothing more than a whore, though granted an exceedingly high priced one. What he needed was pure beauty and innocence.

His mind went to Karen’s perfect face and he shook his head. Such splendid potential even amidst that mulish farm stock! He smiled again. No matter. He’d break down the coarseness and replace it with the sublime delicacy he’d seen the first night at the Christmas party. Her genes were no match for his determination … and resources. His thoughts returned to the pages before him, eliminating Karen from his consciousness as thoroughly and casually as an errant lint particle.

It was really an ideal scenario. Mentally, he ticked off the pluses:
 
Closely held by the company’s founder and a few key employees. An engineering and IT brain trust hand-picked from Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute, perhaps the top engineering school in the
US
, by the founder, himself an alumnus. Robotics technologies, both brick and mortar utilitarian and far beyond the cutting edge. And last but certainly not least, snuggled quietly and accessibly on the
Mississippi River
just south of their largest client – at least prior to the U.S. Government – the beautiful and venerable red brick Anheuser-Busch brewery, which provided a continual stream of stable, cash-producing mechanization contracts.

Michael couldn’t restrain his outpouring of joy at the inventory. His attention returned to Doud, the 67 year old founder. Without doubt an intriguing old coot. Though Michael had no substantiating evidence, his instincts, which he never doubted, told him he’d find Doud a remarkably kindred spirit on closer examination. Michael saw Doud’s acute pale eyes twinkling at him. Doud had given every indication he agreed. That’s why he’d sold his cherished spawn to Michael.

Michael’s lips twisted in satisfaction. He’d have plenty of time to find out for certain. The decision to ask Doud to stay on, at an exorbitant salary, to assist with the transition had been exactly correct.

The phone at his side buzzed softly. “Sir, please buckle your seatbelt. We’re beginning our descent into Parks St. Louis.” In the few weeks since Michael had taken delivery on the Gulfstream, he’d grown to appreciate his pilot’s calm, efficient demeanour.

Michael’s hired car dropped him at the unobtrusive entrance to the windowless, tan, three-story box of a building. He passed through two pneumatic glass doors to a strikingly high-tech security desk manned by a sleek, black-clad guard with piercing dark eyes and a large black gun butt protruding from a holster under his left arm.

Michael knew the guard was not just for show. The man not only had a Special Forces background but had earned a Ph.D. from
Georgetown
University
with a thesis on industrial espionage.

“Good afternoon, Sir.” The words were clipped with military precision. “Mr. Doud is expecting you.” His lips tightened to a thin smile. “Do you know your way or shall I call his secretary to escort you?”

Their eyes united in mutual respect. “I’ll find my way.”

“Very good, Sir.” The man handed Michael an electronic security badge and nodded toward another glass door to his side. “Please enter the cubical and stand for sixty seconds until the light over the rear door turns green. Then pass through and put on a white lab coat over your clothes. The badge clips to the metal bracket on the pocket.”

With almost an entire population of engineers, the building’s orderly layout was no surprise. Michael also appreciated the placement of administrative offices on the ground floor with the labs on the two floors above and the classified labs, servers and document storage in a reinforced, fireproof bunker below ground. He could easily and quickly find his way. But he had no intention of passing quickly to Doud’s office. He wanted to poke his head unexpectedly around corners and through doors, to stroll, to observe, to absorb and, most importantly, to feel.

After twenty five minutes of winding through spare, methodically transverse hallways, observing and occasionally stopping a passerby or opening a door to pleasantly converse with an office occupant, Michael was close to Doud’s office and very ready to get there. He contemplated the fact that no one had questioned his authority and, though no one had given him classified information, they’d been willing to answer his questions. He’d have to discuss this with Doud.

He was striding swiftly, deep in thought, when a solid grey door opened and a tall woman rushed out, almost running him down. He gripped the arms of her white lab coat in time to prevent himself from being impaled on the hard corner of the large, plastic covered book she gripped tight to her bosom. She looked up at him, her flushed face not too far below his. She was obviously flustered and her dark eyes were oddly glazed.

“Whoa!” he said, smiling kindly down at her rather plain face. “Slow down so you don’t kill someone.”

Her eyes focused and her face mottled a deeper pink. “I’m so sorry! Did I hurt you?”

He scrutinized his white front and the immaculate dark lapels peeking from underneath for signs of her startling red lipstick and, thankfully, found none. “I’m fine.” He paused, again smiling benevolently down at her. “May I ask whose office this is?” Again she flushed – very unattractive, not to mention puzzling, he thought.

“Mr. Smith. Ward Smith. He’s one of our managers.”

“Thank you.” He tipped his head politely, dismissively, and knocked on the door. Steel. The thought was nudged aside by her low, stifled gasp and the tap of her footsteps rushing off down the hall like
Alice
’s white rabbit. More and more interesting.

“Come in.” The even voice was muffled by the thick door.

A pleasant man about Michael’s age or perhaps a little younger – 28, Michael estimated – flat and non-descript on first glance, looked up at him from an expensive high-tech desk chair. “May I help you, Mr. ________?”

Michael closed the door behind him, briefly surveying the remarkably functional and orderly office. “You know who I am?”

Smith smiled with the slightest raise of eyebrows. “Of course.” He seemed to become suddenly aware of Michael’s perplexity. He motioned to the metal chairs. “Please, have a seat.” Michael settled into the closest chair, which was unexpectedly warm under his thighs. Smith continued, “We’re a very small family here and,” he met Michael’s eyes and Michael had the distinct impression he himself was under evaluation, “Mr. Doud discussed the purchase with his team at each new step, just as he would any other project.”

“I see.” Something about the man pricked Michael’s exceedingly efficient subconscious. He made eye-contact while allowing his other faculties to examine the man. Smith relaxed back into his chair’s embracing cushion, clearly complaisantly offering himself to Michael’s evaluation. Smith’s hard planes and angles and the incisive grey eyes leapt into view like a hidden pattern in the midst of manifold dots. The familiar tingle of as yet undefined discovery raced up Michael’s spine. Here was something worthy of attention.