The Girl with the Man with a Plan Ch. 03

Fortunately, Polly seemed more than capable of handling those individuals who overtly pursued her sexually, eight of whom were male, along with two women (which surprised me). She gently told them no. And then, if they persisted, not so gently. And, if it went further than that, she would summon me and let it slip into the conversation that not only was I the boyfriend she had alluded to, but that I was her protector. And that would always work. For while Polly represented everything they lusted for in this world, I was the person who represented the exact opposite. I never appreciated the fact before, but I seemed to scare the bejesus out of just about everybody. Not that I really cared.

Unfortunately, that former group of individuals (the ones who simply wanted to befriend her) grew by leaps and bounds. I had to put my foot down; I had to set some sort of limits. I told her she could meet friends for lunch on Tuesdays and Thursdays. But I drew the line at any meetings after work. I didn't trust anyone when alcohol was thrown into the equation.

In her duties as my secretary, I worked her hard, bringing her into discussions about clients and contracts in greater and greater detail. As I said, she had a good mind for trivialities, and often made suggestions that were exceedingly germane regarding clients' personalities, proclivities, associations and other personal data that might help me in business dealings. On top of that, she and I took several walks around the entire building, visiting and speaking with managers and employees of the whole company, including manufacturing, processing, operations, shipping ... even the mailroom in the basement. Everywhere we went, she met new people, made new friends, and seemingly ingratiated herself to everyone everywhere. Within two weeks, she was more of an expert on our organization that I was.

December of 2019 had a Friday the 13th. I remember that was the day we left work to go to the metallurgist who was recommended by the man who did the nipple studs. I had been in touch with him by phone twice, and he had sent me photos via text messages, showing me different types that he could use. I sent him photos, too, though I had taken them while Polly was taking one of her little hypnotic naps, so she had no knowledge of that fact. He worked out of his home in Coraopolis, which is just south of the largest of our "Three Rivers," out near the airport.

Polly had been looking forward to this the way a five-year-old looks forward to a birthday. She had started idly playing with her nipples when she had nothing else to do around the apartment, and she'd twist the little posts absent-mindedly while reading or watching TV. I swear that I hadn't put these thoughts into her pretty head, but the rings seemed to represent the level of intensity in our relationship that she longed for the most.

The guy seemed a decent enough fellow, and he led us down to his workshop, which was in the basement. It was cluttered, though bright, and it smelled of hot solder. He handed Polly a small box containing the two pieces of gold, and she treated them the way a priest treats an ancient religious artifact. I was not impressed; though I suppose the things made sense. They looked ... mangled; but, of course, they would have to be inserted, and then bent into the shape of proper rings. Without prompting, she took off her blouse and bra and took a seat on a stool. I suppose he was expecting this. I mean, that IS what we were there for; but he still seemed very distracted by the sight of her. I was already concerned for her safety, and his demeanor made me even more nervous; but after a minute or two, he started making preparations.

He laid a heavy apron sort of garment over her tummy and lap, then draped another one over her shoulders. She made no noise at all until he started hefting her breasts, maneuvering them between the two fabric pieces, so that they were sort of framed by them, top and bottom. Even then, the sound was small, deep in her throat. She was likewise mostly silent as he unscrewed the posts and threaded the new metallic objects through the holes they had left in the soft/hard nubs of nipple flesh. But then, he picked up a glass tumbler and fished an ice cube from it; and when he applied it directly to her left nipple ... well, THAT got a response: a little shriek, followed by a giggle, and finally a sort of mewling whimper.

There was more movement than I could, at first, follow; but I soon realized that what he was doing. There was a very thin gap between the two ends of the golden ringlet; and he was attaching clips, both above and below this narrow gap. Ah; he was using the clips as heatsinks. Before I could comment, however, he had picked up a soldering iron dabbed a bit of gold wire against it, and touched it to the ring in her left nipple. There was a tiny puff of smoke; but there was seemingly no reaction from Polly, who couldn't really see what was going on, anyway. Ten seconds later, he had unclipped the paraphernalia, and he was holding the ring with his bare fingers, examining it with a jeweler's loop. Then, he'd scrape it with an instrument of some type, polish it with a cloth, and examine it again. He did that over and over. Polly simply sat there and did nothing, other than gasp sharply when he applied the ice cube to the other nipple when the time came.

In fifteen minutes, we were in the car, driving back to our apartment; while, back in that little house in Coraopolis, our metallurgist friend had fifteen crisp new one-hundred-dollar bills, which he'd put in a shoebox on a shelf above his workbench. We stopped at an Italian restaurant on the way back, where we enjoyed a nice meal and each other's company. She was exceedingly happy. I asked her to tell me her thoughts.

"I am yours," she stated flatly, smiling. "Your rings aren't just a symbol ... they're real, and they won't come off. Every time I feel them tugging on me, I'll know. Every time I look in a mirror, I'll be reminded. Every time some other man sees them on me, he'll know, too. I am your possession. I am your property. I belong to you and no one else."

I had prepared for this from the very beginning, of course. I hypnotized her every night, without fail. If I dozed off before her in bed, she would wake me up and beg me to "put her to sleep" first. I didn't mind this; it was part of the dynamic that made us "us." All it took was a few words, and she'd be under. Often, I'd suggest an erotic dream, but that was more of a special treat for when she had particularly pleased me. She fancied herself a "hypno-slave," a phrase she had seen somewhere on the internet. It made me smile. I didn't mind at all if she talked herself into living some fantasy of domination and submission. It's exactly what I wanted.

In our apartment, I couldn't dissuade her from giving me a blowjob (which she stubbornly still insisted on calling a suckjob) to show how much she appreciated being owned. But eventually, I had my chance to examine her new jewelry using a magnifying glass. I thought I could just make out the hint of a seam on the left one, but despite knowing it was there, I couldn't find any indication of one on the right.

This was it. The final step. We were all set. Somehow, I suspect she knew what was coming, but she still didn't know when.

By now, you've probably figured it out, too. It was fairly simple; but then, all good, effective plans are simple. Polly was to be an incentive to a very, very important client, who would sign a very, very important contract that would set me on a course for becoming a very, very important man myself.

Oh, I had contingencies. After all, every plan goes off the rails somewhere along the line; but I felt fairly confident that I'd thought of most of the things that could go wrong. And, I not only had developed responses to those things, I'd thought up so many that there were actually options. Yes, I felt pretty confident.

But, as I think I've mentioned before, no one could have possibly foreseen the event that eventually occurred. Nor could anyone have guessed how large the repercussions would be. Because, before it was all over, Polly and I would become involved in matters that would have an impact on the entire Greater Pittsburgh Metropolitan Area.

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Reggie Rodriquez was born with a silver spoon in his mouth back when silver was valued; and that spoon had only appreciated in worth every day thereafter. He was the type of guy that seemed to have a Midas touch, and just about everybody wanted a little bit of whatever he happened to be touching at the moment.

When it came to Good Old Reggie, I had figured out two things that all those hangers-on had failed to predict. Firstly, I knew what his next big investment was going to be, simply by studying his past financial strategies and understanding how his thought processes were likely to evolve. And secondly, I had learned that things were not going well on the old Homefront. In other words, he was having a bit of trouble with the Missus; and that, if you've followed any high-profile couples in the business world over the past decade, might prove to be the costliest problem he had ever faced.

Mr. Rodriquez was involved in dealings on four continents; and, depending on your point of view, those dealings were either very, very good or very, very bad. As long as the name of the industry had the word "Defense" in it, most people considered it good. "Offense," not so much. That's why some of our nation's largest industries are funded by the Department of "Defense." And, due to the nature of our "Defense" industry, the building of weapons is almost entirely contracted to private corporations like the one owned by Mr. R. I had studied and understood the weapons system he had developed and sold to the Air Force. And, I understood which parts of it had to be subcontracted. One in particular could be built by our company. We had the production line capability. We could tool up quickly. We had the liquidity he needed. And, in the entire world, only I had pieced these things together. Rodriquez didn't know about it yet. Neither did any of our corporate officers or members of our board of directors. But that was all about to change.

It was Monday, December 16th, 2019. I had arranged for Rodriquez to stay at the Hilton for two days; and I had cleared my calendar for both. When he showed up at my office at ten o'clock, no one else in the building knew who he was or what he potentially represented; which, of course, was exactly what I had hoped.

And, exactly as I had hoped, he was instantly, totally, thoroughly captivated by my secretary. She rose as he approached and greeted him by name, then introduced herself and led him into my office without knocking. Now that she was acquainted, she introduced him to me. And, lastly, she offered him coffee, which she had just purchased at the Starbucks downstairs.

He took a sip. "This is just the way I like it!" he exclaimed. "How did you know?" He had a faint Spanish accent.

She laughed and actually clapped her hands in delight. "I knew that would amaze you!" She let the statement hang for a moment. "I called Wanda and asked."

"Wanda?" he hesitated. "My secretary in New York, Wanda?"

Polly laughed again. She laid a hand on his arm to make a point. "I knew that the boss wanted to impress you; and I wanted to impress the boss. So, I called and asked her how I could do that. She seems like a lovely person. We chatted for several minutes. Please tell her hello for me." She walked to the door, the sway in her hips noticeable but apparently unintentional, and she graced us with one last smile. "Please call me if you need anything at all."

I waved a hand at a chair, inviting him to sit, but he was ignoring me completely, staring at the closed office door. "What a remarkable young woman." He finally saw my gesture and sat down. I sensed that he wanted to speak further, so I remained silent. "What would you do if I stole her away from you?" he asked. I couldn't tell if he was being serious.

"You could try," I answered, smiling slightly. "You strike me as a man who is not used to failure. But if you attempted that, I can absolutely guarantee that you would not succeed."

He steepled his fingers and let his brow furrow in thought. "You don't seem the least bit concerned."

I let my smile broaden. "I'm not. You don't have to take my word for it. Ask her. She will never leave me. At any time. For any reason. For any price. She belongs to me. And there is literally nothing on this earth that she wants more than that."

He thought about it for a moment. "Very well, let us get down to business."

And I knew I had him. Not only had I convinced him of my business acumen, but I had earned his respect as an individual. In half an hour, I had laid out my entire plan, and he had agreed to it. He asked for data on various aspects of the project, and Polly brought in the appropriate books seconds after I called for them. The best part of all was when he wanted to see the prospective production line, and I asked my secretary to join us. Of course, dozens of individuals stopped us for the sole purpose of saying hello to her; and she did her "Polly Thing" by smiling, calling them each by name and inquiring about this or that in each of their daily lives. By the end of it all, Rodriquez was a man smitten, and he could barely hide it.

When the tour was over, it was time for me to set the hook. I suggested that we lunch at the restaurant in his hotel downtown, and I told Polly she would join us. They both seemed delighted by the prospect; and, without going back to the office, we went down and hailed a cab.

Of course, I had scoped out the place in advance and reserved a booth table in the most private corner of the dining area. I don't know if Rodriquez knew it had all been scripted on my part, but I sort of imagine he did. Polly obviously didn't have a clue as to my intentions during the meal; and she was more than happy to comply with my suggestion that she slide into the booth to sit against the far wall, while we two menfolk took positions facing each other, on either side of her. The white linen tablecloth fell to our laps, and the table had been set up formally. I told the waiter that we would be having lunch, and he immediately began picking up silverware and dinnerware items.

It hadn't struck me until just then that I had never taken her out to a truly formal restaurant. She observed the proceedings in mute fascination that bordered on delight. Our guest seemed to pick up on her state of mind and asked her if she would allow him to order for her; an offer which she seemed shyly overjoyed to accept. Several of the appetizers offered on the menu, he explained, were items typically found in Tapas bars in his home country; and he regaled us with facts about how traditional Tapas were different in Granada than they were in Seville. I allowed him to carry the conversation throughout the meal; and while she obviously knew that this man was important to me in business, I came to believe that her interest was genuine. She seemed utterly captivated, though the Champagne that he continuously poured to top off her glass might have added to that dynamic.

When she begged us not to indulge in dessert, I deemed the time had finally arrived. We'd been supping for more than an hour and a half at that point, and through it all, I had let things play out on their own. Now, it was time to see if all that planning and more than two months of preparations had paid off. For, while I felt confident in her conditioning and emotional attachment, there was always a risk; and everything came down to this moment.

I cleared my throat and took charge. "Polly, I should tell you that the two of us have reached a preliminary agreement on the proposal we've been working on so hard. We'll be writing up the contract very soon."

"Oh, that's wonderful!" she said, smiling broadly and slurring her words only slightly. She reached out and took his hand. "I'm so happy that we'll be working together! How often do you think you'll need to come here?"

I didn't let him respond. "He and I still have some details to work out. Please excuse us while we speak about the particulars."

She blushed and lowered her gaze. "Yes, sir. Of course. I'm sorry." But then she looked up at our guest. "Before you do that, can I just say that I've had a wonderful meal? Thank you so much for inviting me! It's been just about the best lunch I've ever had, ever, in my whole life!"

He started laughing at that, so she blushed even more, put her hands in her lap and looked down at them.

Again, I cleared my throat. "Mr. Rodriquez and I were talking earlier in my office. He seemed very impressed with you, and asked me what our relationship is. Would you be so kind as to explain it to him?"

She glanced up sharply at me, her eyes asking a thousand unspoken questions, but I kept my countenance blank. Finding no solace there, she looked inquiringly at our lunch guest, but he seemed to have the wherewithal to realize that it just might be in his best interest to remain silent, as well. So, she looked back down at her hands and spoke in a quiet, clear voice.

"Mr. Baxter is more than my boss, sir. I live with him. We're lovers." But she suddenly realized that she had badly misspoken; so, she shook her head. "No, that's not true. We ... we aren't lovers. But we have sex. All the time. Almost every day."

She looked up at me for just a moment to see if she had said enough. Obviously, my expression conveyed that it hadn't been sufficient. She took a deep breath and faced Rodriquez. "I am his slave, sir. I fell in love with him, and I gave myself to him. Forever. He ... He considers me his property. His possession. And that's the way I want it. I would do anything for him."

"Would you?" I asked her pointedly.

"Yes, sir," she responded immediately. "Anything."

"Reach down and pull your skirt up to your waist. I want you to feel the seat against your panty-clad ass."

She quickly glanced around the room, but she never hesitated. Instantly, she began bunching her skirt up on either side of her hips, and she shimmied them from side to side to work the garment up toward her waist. She continued to do that for about half a minute, but then she suddenly stopped and put her hands back in her lap. It took me a moment to realize that she had completed her mission.

"Very good," I told her bluntly. "Now, do you know how I sometimes bring you to orgasm by rubbing my fingertip around and around your clitoris?"

Now, her face was truly red. She took a deep, shuddering breath. "Yes, sir."

"I want you to put your right hand down the front of your panties, and I want you to do that with one of your own fingertips. I want you to keep doing that until you are about to cum, but I don't want you to let yourself release into orgasm. Take yourself right to the edge, but don't let yourself go over. Stop before that happens and let me know that you have completed that task. Do you understand?"

"Oh, God," she whimpered softly. But then she spoke slightly louder. "Yes, sir. I understand." We saw her hand come up to her waist and then slowly disappear behind a glimpse of blue silk.

Our dinner companion reached over and pulled the edge of the tablecloth up to better hide her. "Alright, Baxter," he growled. "I get the picture. You've made your point."

"Let her go for a while," I told him casually. "I'm anxious to see if she has the self-control to stop herself in time." We both looked around the room. The lunch crowd was long gone, and we were more or less alone. We hadn't seen the waiter since I signed the bill. "Your flight to JFK leaves at four tomorrow, correct?"

"Four eighteen," he said.