Generous Natures Pt. 01

Part 1: Fun to Drive

This story is a direct sequel to one of my earlier works, Jasmine's Last Stand. It's not necessary to read that story prior to this one, but if you like this story, you'll probably like Jasmine's Last Stand. If you haven't read it, all you need to know is that Jasmine is the hypno-slave of Devon Stockwell, who fully activated her a few hours prior to Generous Natures, and intends to share her with his wealthy friends.

* * *

She'd been Devon's slave for less than a day so far, and a sudden, curious thought came to her.

Was Jasmine her real name?

She ran her hand along the silk of the dress she'd be wearing that evening, hanging in the walk-in closet. He said he'd help her get it on when he finished shaving and styling his hair. It always took him a long time to get ready. He was meticulous with his appearance.

He was meticulous with everything, in fact, including her mind. He was so skilled as a hypnotist that he could make her forget or remember things with a snap of his fingers. She shuddered at the thought, wondering if it would always make her this horny to understand how deep his control ran.

One could only hope.

So that was why she wondered if Jasmine was her real name. Well, it was her real name now, but she didn't know for sure if it was the name she'd been born with. The name she'd had before Devon made her his. He hadn't taken her memories away, of her life before. She didn't think so, anyway. There was just a dull sheen over everything, like the memories were neglected and covered in dust, not worth thinking much about if she thought about them at all.

It wasn't really important, in the grand scheme of things. She liked the name. She liked the way it sounded on his tongue. But it seemed, maybe, a little too exotic for someone who also happened to be a kept sex toy. Maybe her parents had been fans of Aladdin. Or maybe Devon was, especially of the scene where the princess dressed in red.

Either way, it was her name now. She wanted it on a collar. She wanted it imprinted on one side of a little tag, with the other side bearing Devon's name and number, in case she ever got lost and some kind soul had to help her find her way home.

It wasn't likely that would happen, since she couldn't leave the penthouse without him. He'd built a mental block into her programming so that she would be unable to open the front door or cross the threshold unless he gave her permission or went with her. But, say they were at a club together, and it was crowded, and they were separated. And someone might find her, read the collar, recognize the importance of Devon's name, or just be a generally good Samaritan. "Hey, uh, I found your...Jasmine," they'd say on the phone, and Devon would come running, offering profound thanks. Jasmine might be punished for letting herself get separated. Or she might be offered up to the one who found her as a token of appreciation. Either way, she'd enjoy it.

Those were the kinds of thoughts she was allowed to have now. He wanted her head to be as fluffy and smut-filled as possible, always thinking about new ways she might be used or please her owner. Always horny. Always ready to go.

She gripped the silk dress a little tighter, bit her lip, bent her knees slightly. Her slut cunt was getting slick with arousal, but yet another function lost to her was the ability to touch herself without his order. And she wasn't allowed to ask, either. He might offer, but it was up to him. The thought of that, of course, only made her more aroused.

How was she supposed to get through tonight with her head like this?

Devon emerged from the bathroom, a thick cloud of steam behind him. He wore his black dress pants and a white shirt, with an untied tie draped over the back of his neck. She inhaled the scent of his herbal aftershave as she watched him adjust his cufflinks.

He eyed her grip on the dress, then his gaze fell to her bare crotch, and he smirked. "Darling," he said.

She let out the tiniest whine. It was just a word, just one word. Not even an order. Not even anything, really. But it made her want to drop to the ground and put her forehead against his feet.

But that was what she would have done if this was a game. If she was only playing at behind obedient, only playing at being brainwashed, only playing at belonging to him the same way anything else in this apartment did. A true and owned slave obeyed her Master first, and then her programming. Her own urges didn't even make the list. If she was allowed to have them, then their purpose was to serve as a reminder of how deep her submission ran, how far removed she was from freedom. It was yet another way of playing with her, because Devon could always see the lust plainly on her face and in her body language.

He knew her inside and out, but she knew him too. And oh, did he want to play with her right now. He bit his lip and she did what she was allowed to do while she waited for orders. She clasped her hands behind her back, jutting out her breasts. She glanced at his cock, and salivated behind her lips when she saw it bulging against the inside of his slacks.

Maybe one day, she thought, the novelty of owning her would wear off, and he would be able to keep himself from staring at her in awe, reminded that his plan had worked; he'd made her his fuckdoll. But she would savor every moment, regardless of his moods.

"We..." He gave a deep laugh and shook his head as he continued to stare at her. He bit his lip and hummed. "You want me to fuck you, Jasmine?"

"Yes," she said. The answer would always be yes.

For a moment, she thought he would. He closed the distance between them with two long steps, put one hand on her cheek, and stroked her ear with his thumb. "Good," he said. "I want to fuck you too. But I need your cunt wet, your clit hard, and besides...we're short on time."

The arousal was pounding in her belly, even more now that he spoke to her in his husky, commanding voice. She whimpered, but nodded.

He took the dress off the rack with his free hand. "Turn."

She turned and stepped into the gown, a backless teal number with thin straps. He zipped up the back, which ended just above her ass. "Might be the only time I get to show you off in a backless dress." He grasped her forearms and rested a chin on her shoulder. "I'm thinking about whipping you," he murmured. "Nothing disfiguring, of course." He stroked her back with his knuckles. "But I'd like you to start associating pain with pleasure."

She shivered, couldn't help but gulp.

If that was his goal, there were easier ways. He could simply program her to like pain, during a hypnosis session.

But that probably wasn't as much fun for him, and she existed for him to have fun with her.

He squeezed her forearms, and she relaxed, remembering what he taught her during her training. That she would always be safe, always be happy, as long as she was his.

He ran a finger up her spine, as if tracing the spots where he'd been thinking about leaving marks. "Get your hair and makeup finished," he said.

She obeyed, heading to the bathroom. She plugged in the curling iron and let it preheat while she tended to her face. Permanent makeup had done some of the work already, but she put on foundation, mascara, and a deep red lipstick. Devon had considered getting her lips tattooed with her eyes and the small amount of blush on her cheeks, but he hadn't been able to decide what color they should be. Plus, he liked when she left lipstick on his cock.

Once that was done, she set to work on her hair. Devon liked her to keep her strawberry blonde locks down as much as possible, so she brushed it out, using a bit of product to keep it from frizzing, and curled the ends so they hung loose around her neck and shoulders. Then some hairspray to keep it all in place. She thought she looked like a movie star, though he'd conditioned her to be a little vain. He wanted her to be proud to be his, and before she was, she never put this much effort into her appearance. It helped that Devon spared no expense when it came to beauty products. Or anything.

She left the bathroom and put on a pair of high heels in the closet that matched her dress, draped a wrap over her shoulders and grabbed her clutch, then headed up the stairs. It had just been a few hours ago, before he set her programming in permanently, when she had climbed these stairs confused and frightened, unsure what was happening to her.

What a horrible start to the morning that had been. So much fear, so much uncertainty. But it had all been part of Master's plan, to ensure his control over her memories was absolute, and she'd passed with flying colors.

Devon was in the foyer. He'd put on a navy blazer over his shirt. When he saw her come up, he pulled his phone out of his pocket, dialed a number. "Cesar, it's Devon." Cesar said something on the other end. "Good. I'm great, actually. You?" A pause as he let the other man speak. "Glad to hear it. Can you have my car brought around to the front?" He winked at Jasmine. "Thanks so much. See you in a minute." He hung up and put the phone back in his pocket. "Incredible," he said to Jasmine.

"I wasn't sure about the lip color," she said honestly. He could train her to take anything up the ass, but color theory was a bit different, especially since he'd given her so many to choose from. In her old life, she'd only ever been able to afford two or three colors at a time, if that.

"No, it's perfect." He grinned and cupped her chin. "My little doll."

She hummed under his touch. Speaking, while not forbidden, was something she tried not to do without purpose. If Devon asked her a question, she would answer, and if she had something she needed to say, she could say it. But her Master wasn't interested in a dumb bimbo who whined about how horny she was all the time. That was fine for some Masters, but not for hers. So if a mewl or a moan could work instead, then that was what she'd do.

"Take off your cuffs," he ordered.

She bent down and undid the ones around her ankles. They were leather, thick, but otherwise nothing special. But she was forbidden from removing them without his order. He'd installed spots all over the penthouse where he could restrain her at a moment's notice. When they were off, she stood back up and took off the two on her wrists. It felt so strange to not be wearing them. Naked, and not in a good way. She couldn't help but show her discomfort on her face. Without them, she was just another woman.

Then she looked at Devon's eyes, his smile, and realized that no, that wasn't true. Cuffs or no cuffs, she was his, and he wouldn't ever let her forget that.

"Put them in your purse," he said as he opened the front door.

She did. They were a tight fit, bulging against the fabric a little, but without a wallet, phone, or keys, it was easier. She didn't need those things anymore.

He put his hand on the small of her back. "Ready?"

She swallowed, but nodded. It hadn't been long since she'd last been out of the apartment, but this would be her first time leaving as a true slave. No longer in training, or entranced. And it wouldn't be to go somewhere the new Jasmine might feel more comfortable, like a fetish club or one of his friends' places to be passed around. They'd be mingling, hobnobbing with people who would be peering at her like she was an exhibit at the zoo, but not for any fun reasons. Not because they'd be thinking about whether Devon would let them fuck her, or because they were jealous that she belonged to Devon. Because as far as they knew, she was just some poor girl who used to work in his father's office and now mooched off of one of the most eligible and richest bachelors in New York. Not a slave. Not a sex toy. Arm candy. As good as an insult to them.

"They're all moochers too, of course," he'd said to her earlier in the day, while he was warning her about the attitudes they might encounter tonight. "But God help you if you're the wrong kind of moocher." He'd rolled his eyes. "You have nothing to worry about, though. Anyone so much as looks at you the wrong way, they'll hear from me."

"What should I do?" she'd asked, wide-eyed and quiet.

"Nothing," he'd said. "You smile. You let the gross old men kiss your hand. You nod politely when the old women tell you to join their luncheon societies or whatever. You tell them it's a pleasure to meet them. And you let me do the rest of the talking. Not much different from any other situation. But I want you to understand, my conditioning can help you know what to do when you're around them, but it may not have made you immune to their sideways glances, the notes of sarcasm in their voices. I can make you relaxed before and after, and even make you forget it if it's bad enough, but in the moment, I won't be able to snap you into a trance to help. You're mine, whatever that means to them, and they should be genteel. I hope they will be. But my experience has taught me not to be so naïve, and it would be irresponsible of me to throw you into the lion's den without warning you."

They'd been on the couch during this conversation, and the entire time, he had an arm around her, the other hand idly stroking her bare torso. He could touch her wherever and however he wanted, and she marveled how gentle he was with her so much of the time. She'd be happy to be touched in any way he wished, but it was comforting to know that her owner enjoyed just stroking her like she was a pet nestled next to him for an afternoon nap. It still made her wet, but then again, almost everything did.

And she'd thought it was nice too, that he was warning her. It raised the question momentarily of why he was taking her at all, but then she thought of Tasha, and she smiled.

#

"Mr. Devon!" Cesar was a short, older man in a gray suit, with white gloves and a doorman's hat. He waved as Devon and Jasmine exited the elevator on the first floor and then rushed over to them, dangling Devon's car keys. He handed them over. "You have a lovely lady tonight," he said with a warm grin.

"This is Jasmine," Devon said. "She'll be staying with me for awhile." He squeezed her waist. "A long while."

"Oh, that's so nice," Cesar said, and Jasmine could immediately tell he was one of the nicest, most scrupulous people she was going to meet tonight. It was probably one of the many reasons Devon wouldn't offer her up to him. She imagined he'd be appalled. "Welcome, Ms. Jasmine. I'm Cesar." He put a hand to his chest. "Anything you need, just ask."

"Thank you," she said. Her status as Devon's sex doll was at the forefront of her mind, but it was nice, for just a moment, to be spoken to like a person.

"You have a great night, Cesar," Devon said as he led Jasmine out the lobby door.

"You too, Mr. Devon," Cesar called. Devon hated to be called "Mr. Stockwell." This was probably a compromise on Cesar's part.

"Oh, we will," Devon whispered huskily in her ear as they walked away. And just like that, she was a melted, wanton whore again, letting out a soft moan as he squeezed her breast out of Cesar's view. "Good girl."

They emerged onto the apartment building's porte-cochere, where Devon's sleek black BMW was waiting for them. She ached for him to throw her down, hike up the skirt of her dress, and fuck her right on the hood.

He opened the passenger door for her, and she sat inside, trying to not let any of her fantasies show on her face, if only to practice for the rest of the night.

"I don't think you've been in my car before, have you?" he asked as he settled into the driver's seat.

"No, Sir." Up until now, they'd either met everywhere they went, or took taxis or chauffeured cars. Even the subway a few times.

"I don't take her out much," he said, pulling out onto the street, "but she's fun to drive."

She eyed the interior. The leather seats, the bright displays on the dashboard. She looked over at Devon, lips parted.

He laughed when he noticed. "What's on your mind?"

"I've never known what that means," she said. "When people say a car is fun to drive." Not because she was stupid; he'd made her sex-obsessed, but not stupid. Not for now, anyway. But she'd never driven any car before moving to the city beside her parents' old beat-up Corolla, and she'd never known anyone with a car as expensive as Devon's.

He pinched his lips as he considered the question. "I guess it means different things to different people. For me, I like the bells and whistles. The display, the audio system. And I like the way it handles around curves and the way it feels when I go fast. Not that I get to do much of that in the city, but this summer we'll go to my family's place in the Hamptons and you'll get to see it then."

"Does the top go down?" she asked. Growing up, she'd thought a convertible car was the height of luxury.

He laughed. "It's funny you ask that. My last car was a convertible. I was so excited at the time, but barely used it. In New York, you only get about three months of the year where it's not too cold, and when I did have it down I always felt like there were bugs in my teeth and my hair was getting messed up. None of my girlfriends liked it either. They'd always want to try it at first, but then they'd ask pretty quickly to have it put back up. It was a fun novelty, and I'm glad I tried it, but it wore off quickly."

She shifted in her seat and looked down at her hands, not sure why she suddenly felt uncomfortable.

There was silence for a moment, nothing but the hum of the car's engines and the sounds of the city at ground level.

"Jasmine," Devon said. "I need you to understand something about me." His voice suddenly sounded like it was made of steel, even more authoritative than when he commanded her. "I am not someone who does things on a whim. Every mistake I make, I look to it as an opportunity to learn something about myself. Every decision I make is based on careful analysis and deep consideration. You have no idea how much work went into procuring you before I even spoke a word to you, how much time I spent determining whether or not making you mine was really want I wanted. How carefully I worked to ensure I could not only take you, but take care of you in the way that you deserve, especially in exchange for your service to me." There was no anger in his voice, no menace. Only firm resolve. "You don't need to know every detail. You don't need to know everything I that I did. You just need to know that it happened, that under no circumstances do I consider you a toy that can be discarded or replaced. You are not a novelty. You are not an experiment or a prototype. You are the final, perfected product."

He'd said words like that to her before, but never with such passion.

If Jasmine had still been a free woman with a free mind, she might have scoffed at his speech, said it wasn't enough. He could be as good a man as any in all other aspects of his life, but it didn't matter as long as he was determined to own another person, to the point of calling her a product. And she'd know that promising to take care of her far from made up for it. She would still call him despicable.

But free Jasmine had long been erased, and slave Jasmine wanted him to tell her what she was, and how he'd made her, over and over again. She wanted him to tease her with all the things he'd done to her and could do to her, all the ways he could prove that she was his to control.

Slave Jasmine was now squirming in her seat for an entirely different reason, and her Master noticed. He smiled, then lifted his chin at the windshield. "Almost at the valet," he said. "Take the cuffs out of your purse and put them in the glove compartment."

She opened her purse, but hesitated, frowning as if she was surprised with herself.