The Girl with the Man with a Plan Ch. 03

The Girl with the Man with a Plan

Chapter Three - Implementation

"We are changing," I told her.

"Are we?" she asked. "If that's the case, the changes must be good. I don't think I've ever been happier in my life."

Following dinner, she had asked me if she could turn the thermostat down early. We had begun watching TV on the couch together. I'm not really sure when the tradition had started, but she had somehow gotten me to approve cuddling together under a blanket while we watched; and that was the case now, with my arm around her nude body while she clung to me intimately. We both wanted more. She was having her period; and, while I'm sure she would have agreed in a second to any sexual suggestion I might make, it was not my desire. I had started her on birth control pills (it was part of the plan), and you could set your watch to her cycle now. Anyway, as I've mentioned before, I particularly detest blood, almost as much as I detest a mess. The previous month, she had satisfied me with her hands, with her mouth; but I didn't want that, either. It's not so much that I cared about her romantically as it was the rush I got from dominating her to the point of orgasm. I liked to imagine myself forcing her to experience pleasure. I wanted that again; but not now.

It was as if she could read my mind. "Tomorrow," she promised softly. I couldn't understand why she was blushing. Women are unfathomable.

"Are you ready to start to work on Monday."

She smiled anxiously. "I can't wait! But I'm so nervous! I know there are a thousand ways I could disappoint you!"

I patted her on the bare knee, hoping I was being supportive without being condescending. "I know that you'll do just fine," I told her. This was all new to me. I never really saw a reason to compliment people before. Most of the time, they were just doing their jobs.

She sighed and grinned. She had a nice smile. More than nice. I tried hard not to let my mind put a price tag on it; but there was little doubt: that smile was worth a lot to me. And, combined with the sigh that had so inadvertently, so innocently, expanded her chest, the smile was much, much more than just "nice." It was an invitation to fill your head with exotic fantasies.

Six weeks before, on the eve of the surgery, I'm not sure what I had anticipated; but whatever that had been, this new look surpassed it. The angry purple bruises had slowly given way to sickly, dark yellow splotches that covered most of her face. The rows of tiny stitches were removed by the doc during the next visit to our apartment ... at least those that were visible; while an equal number of stitches insider her mouth and nose either fell out or dissolved. There were some rather prevalent scars on her cheeks; and the ones at each corner of her mouth somehow reminded me of the makeup they had used on "The Joker" in one of the Batman movies. But the scars faded and finally disappeared somewhere around the one-month mark, leaving skin that still wasn't quite right, but that was easily touched up with a little makeup. And even that was improving, week to week.

What I hadn't expected were dimples. That had not been part of the package, nor of my overall scheme; at least, not in my mind's eye. They weren't part of the scarring associated with the mouth, and I asked the doc point-blank if he had taken it upon himself to add the feature. He, in turn, got pretty defensive, and pointed out that they had been there all along; they'd just been overshadowed by her other facial features. Quite frankly, I'm not sure if I ever truly believed him; but dimples were certainly a prevalent part of her face now. It took me quite a while to realize that I really hadn't seen her smile that much during those first few days that I had known her ... at least, not like she was smiling now. They were sort of transformative, those smiles. They had a habit of changing the mood of everything around her.

I swear, I didn't notice it right away. Those first four weeks of her convalescence, when she was cloistered in the apartment, her smiles were sort of goofy, love-struck things that let me know she was mine, heart and soul. Not that it affected me much; but that was part of the plan, and I encouraged it. After that, however, around mid-November, I took her out for walks to give her exercise and fresh air, and I began experiencing things I'd never encountered before. The two "porters," for example, seemed to fall all over themselves to try and please her, tipping hats and holding doors and asking over and over again if there was ANYTHING they could do to help her, and generally acting like buffoons.

When I walk down a sidewalk by myself, nobody every says hello or smiles or seems to give a shit about me at all. But with Polly at my side, there never seemed to be anyone, man or woman or child, who did NOT pay attention or give us a cheerful greeting or at least display a brightening of mood. Before all of this, nobody seemed to want to give her the time of day. Rather a sad state of affairs, if you stop and think about it. She, on the other hand, seemed oblivious to that aspect of it. When people smiled at her, she smiled right back. And when Polly smiled, the whole world seemed to change.

I don't celebrate holidays. Never saw the need. But she begged me to please please please get a turkey for Thanksgiving. And, of course, when I gave in on that little demand, she wanted dressing and cranberry sauce and potatoes ... a whole list that took me more than half an hour to get in a grocery store. She spent all day in the kitchen. I insisted I couldn't help, instead going through some work I had brought home. Even so, I must admit that she did quite a job. Before we sat down for the meal, however, she insisted on running a couple plates downstairs to Pickening and Farley, the two porters, who lived in separate rooms off one side of the parking level, near the laundry area. It didn't take long until she got back, but it sort of pissed me off, just the same.

And that's where we were now ... Thanksgiving evening, cuddled on the couch, watching TV. When our show was over, we started talking about her coming first day of work, which would be the Monday following the long weekend.

But before that, there was one last task to set the stage for my plan's implementation. I hadn't told her about that, just as I hadn't told her about the plan itself. So confident was I that she would follow my every command, fulfill my every wish, that it simply wasn't necessary.

Thanksgiving is a truly American holiday. And forgive me ... I am well aware of the fact that the term "American" does not apply strictly to residents of the United States; though we are inclined, in our self-centeredness, to believe so. However, we were truly the originator of the now-worldwide event that occurs the day after: Black Friday. And, in the past, I have observed that day the way I observe all holidays. I abhor crowds. I abhor shopping. Normally, I cower in my home and work. Alas, that was not to be the case on this Friday. Fortunately, the establishment I had called to made an appointment was not one that would be overly crowded.

Polly hesitated only momentarily when I led her into the tattoo parlor. I took solace in the fact that I could still surprise her ... and in the fact that once surprised, she submitted to my wishes as she always had, and, I assumed, as she always would. I walked with her to the back of the establishment, and I identified myself. The man put down his paperback novel.

"Frank!" he screamed at a curtained doorway. "Your appointment's here!"

Good old Frank poked his head into the main area and gave us the once-over, lingering appreciatively on Polly's ample assets. He crooked a finger at us without saying a word, and I led her back into the depths of the place. "Please, take off your blouse and bra. Let's see what we have to work with." His voice had a distinctive rumble.

She was clearly shocked, and glanced at me in alarm; but I simply nodded. Blushing crimson, her fingers immediately began manipulating the row of buttons on her blouse. I had done something like this once before, about a week prior to this, when I took her for a special fitting for half a dozen brassieres. I had wanted something that would give support but still tastefully display her breasts to the fullest extent possible while hiding her overly-long nipples.

The man whistled in appreciation. "I haven't seen a pair of nips like these in a long time." He patted the top of a padded piece of furniture that looked vaguely like a surgical table. It was probably used for tattooing someone's lower body. "Have a seat right here, honey," he told her. He took his time measuring her nipples with a set of calipers.

Finally, he set the instrument aside and looked between the two of us. "Who's in charge here?" Polly immediately looked toward me for guidance, and Frank had his answer. "I can do almost anything with nipples like this. What did you have in mind?"

"Rings?" I asked.

He nodded. "Posts first. Screw-on studs, actually. We can switch to rings in a week or so."

"I'd like them to be permanent," I said. She kept silent at my comment, but seemed to blush even brighter.

"No can do, man," he replied. "And by that, I mean that I can't do it. You'd need a metallurgist for something like that. I know a guy ... but you didn't hear it from me. We've got health and safety codes. I can send you home with a pair of titanium studs for a hundred fifty."

I took two one hundred dollar bills out of my wallet and handed them to him. "Take good care of her and keep the change."

He immediately began swabbing her nipples with alcohol. She shivered almost violently, but didn't protest. I leaned into her and whispered in her ear.

"Would you like me to put you to sleep for this?"

"No," she said out loud, causing good old Frank to look up questioningly. But she ignored him. "I want to feel it. I want to feel it happen." She seemed to catch her breath as he began cleansing the other nipple. "And ... sir?"

"Yes?"

"I've never worn earrings. As long as we're here, can I get my ears done, too?"

Hmm. I'd never even considered that. I wondered to myself if I should be pissed that she was taking advantage, but I found that I sort of liked the idea. I took out another hundred. "Can you do that, Frank?"

"Absolutely," he said, taking the bill and smiling. Without further comment or preparation, he raised a device to her left breast, inserted her nipple, studied the positioning for about three seconds, and pulled a trigger underneath it.

There was a loud POP, and she gave a strangled little "OH!" of a scream.

"Sorry, my dear. I've found that prolonging the act doesn't help the nerves. It's just sort of my style; do you know what I mean?"

While he was giving her this little spiel, he was fiddling with her other breast. POP!

"OH!"

"Worst part's over, Dearie. Let me just clean up a bit, and we'll put in those studs."

Blood! A drop of red, red blood trickled down the underside of her left breast, while another droplet formed under the other nipple. "I ... I'll see you out in the waiting room," I told her briefly, and I left them. Once in the room out front, I dug out my cell phone and tried to check the headlines, though my shaking hands made that difficult. I heard the pop of that damned gizmo twice more, and the thing made me jump each time. I can't remember what the news was about. Probably politics. That's all that the papers and electronic media seemed to talk about anymore.

She was beaming, and she practically ran to me in her excitement. "Do you like them, sir?" But then she blushed and laughed gaily. She swept her hair back on both sides and I dutifully raised my eyes from her breasts to her ears. The new silvery earrings were studs with dangly little chains swinging from them about two inches below her earlobes.

"Um ... very nice. Are you okay?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." She handed me a calling card. "Here's the name of the man who can do the rings, sir."

I took the card and put it in my pocket. Then I offered her my arm, which she held with both of her hands, and she allowed me to lead her out to the car. On the ride home, she was smiling wistfully. "Are you really going to put permanent rings in my nipples, sir?"

"That's what I want, yes ... if I can find someone who will do that for me."

"I'll be wearing your rings. I'll be wearing your rings ... forever."

Her comment sort of rankled me. "That's a little presumptuous of you, isn't it? Just because you're wearing a couple rings in your nipples doesn't mean I can't give you to somebody else."

She huffed a little laugh. "I would know. Every time they tugged on me, I would think about you. Every time I saw them in a mirror, I would know that I am yours. Every time anybody else saw them, they would know that you were the one who made me wear them. Everyone that sees them will know that I am your slave."

I could have argued further, but I knew I was defeated; so, I kept quiet. Once we got home, she dragged me into the bedroom and mounted me as soon as she could. She shuddered through two orgasms herself, but never slowed; and she kept at it for more than half an hour before I blasted inside her. Breathless and overjoyed, she rolled off of me and told me that she admired me for my stamina. I didn't tell her that the reason it had taken me so long was that I had been distracted, hoping beyond hope that her nipples wouldn't start bleeding again.

***************

I am my company's top salesman. Or rather, I have been the top performing salesman for the past year. There's a stipulation in my contract that I do not have to have a secretary; and if I do decide to get one, it will be at my own discretion.

For Polly, Monday, almost in its entirety, was taken up with the hiring process. One might think that because she had done temp work there before, it might have streamlined things a little; but that was not the case. As a temp, things like healthcare, retirement funds, payroll deductions, direct deposit, workman's comp, company life insurance, vacation, personal and sick time and a dozen other benefits, had all been denied her. Now, she had to have each one explained to her and each program signed up for. She had to join a union, and that was another time-consuming ordeal.

I took her to work at nine in the morning, but I did not see her again until after three o'clock when I happened to look out of my office door and spotted her at the secretary's desk talking to someone. The someone left, and I was about to go out to her and ask how things had gone, when someone else stopped by her desk to talk. Then someone else. Everyone, it seemed, had to meet the new girl.

Did she remember? Did she know that two of the women that wanted so much to chat with her were among those who had so pointedly ignored her at that lunch table two month before? I despised subterfuge among others (though I was obviously willing to employ it myself). When Ralph Grimes, another sales rep, started getting uncomfortably close during his conversation with her, I'd had enough and walked out to her desk.

She was already speaking. "Thank you, Mr. Grimes, but like I said before, I'm already in love with someone else; and I really don't want to go out with you, though I am flattered you asked."

Grimes smiled, undeterred. "Well, keep it in mind. And remember what I told you. When this asshole finally drives you away from this desk, I expect you to come to me, right down there." He turned and pointed. "I'll treat you the way a secretary should be treated." He nodded to me and winked. "Baxter." And he spun on his heel and walked back toward his office.

I was about to call her into my edifice, but the secretaries' union rep suddenly showed up with more paperwork to sign. Discouraged, I retreated, only to watch the parade of well-wishers and prospective suitors continue. Finally, about five o'clock, things tapered off after a group of girls were denied the pleasure of her company for a "welcome aboard" party in the bar across the street. I couldn't hear her replies, but she finally seemed to get her message across, and they went away, disappointed.

Several minutes later, she was standing in my doorway. "My head is spinning," she said, smiling shyly.

"Come in, lock the door and take off your clothes," I ordered gruffly.

Oddly, she began disrobing before she voiced any concern. "It's getting dark outside, and our lights are very bright, sir. Literally everyone still left in the offices across the street will be able to see us."

I sat and thought about that for a long moment. On the one hand, I felt anger that she would question me; but on the other, she had already removed her blouse, and was working on the bra. I got up, went to the window, and cranked the control for the window blinds, making the slats tilt and restrict the view. She straightened from sliding her silk panties down to the floor. "Do you want my shoes on or off, sir?"

"On. Now, bend over the edge of the desk, face down."

"Yes, sir."

I had cleared my desk for the day; and so, she had plenty of room to spread out, bent at the waist, her arms wide, her breasts ballooned as they pressed into the polished wood surface, her left cheek resting on its surface. I moved my palm over her taught ass, stroking her thighs and finally cupping her sex. She was very wet, and the noise she emitted was not so much a moan as a sound of appreciation. I undid my belt and my pants, then shoved it all, including my underwear, down to my knees.

"Tell me about your day," I said matter-of-factly; and I thrust as far into her body as I could.

"OH! Oh, sir! It was ... UGH! ... It was all ... UGH! ... very ... UGH! ... very nice ... UGH!"

I was stroking in and out of her at my own pace, and I felt ... powerful. It was as if everything was going my way. We were so close now ... so close to implementing the plan. I didn't know if it was going to go according by my wishes or not, but it was almost ready to launch. God, I felt hard. Sliding forward and back, in and out, building, building. I could make her do anything. Anything. To prove my point, I reached around her and stroked her clit hard. Within just a few seconds, she was spasming around my shaft, her fist in her mouth, trying hard to stifle the sounds that threatened to erupt from within her throat. So powerful. I exploded in her depths.

"Tell me what you want from me, Polly," I ordered.

She didn't hesitate, even a second. "I want your rings, sir. I want to wear your rings in my nipples."

I never even tried to hold back my laughter. I imagine I sounded a wee bit manic.

***************

By the end of the first workweek, you might expect that a routine would have been established. Well, it had and it hadn't. Polly, whether it was her prerogative or not, became an immensely popular person in our company. There were several reasons for that, none of which I could have predicted. Firstly, she was exceedingly bright; and, it seemed, she had a photographic memory for names, faces and personal information. When an uncommonly pretty girl sees you, smiles at you, greets you by name and inquires about this or that; well then, you tend to like her. And to add to the mystique, she was a truly genuine person in just about everything she said or did. If you asked her a question, you could logically assume she would not lie to you. Such people are ... rare; and it is only natural that you would want to keep that person close, if at all possible.

Next, she had an underlying quality, almost an aura, that exuded mute sexuality. She never talked about it, or otherwise suggested it outwardly, but it was always there. I believe it was an overt personification of innocence, which can be a devastatingly erotic thing. The way I had her dress amplified that perception. Most men, and some women, feel an urge to possess such a woman and keep her safe from the perversions the world would try to throw her way ... all while exercising those perversions personally. I found it an odd dynamic, and a fascinating one.