tagNonConsent/ReluctanceTake Only as Directed Ch. 09

Take Only as Directed Ch. 09

bypenfrock©

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.

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