World on a String


"Not yet." She said.


I looked up, and saw that she was tapping one finger above her trimmed pubic patch. "She's saving you, so you need to thank her. Give her a kiss."

I looked into her eyes, and saw she wasn't joking. Still, even with so much on the table, I hesitated. This was something else. Putting my lips on...on that.

"You don't have to eat it, girl. But if you want me to help you get this job, you will kiss it." She sneered.

Trapped, I leaned forward and gathering up my courage I placed a soft peck on the outer folds of her vagina. Light enough not to have to taste. Then I began to pull back.

Her hand suddenly gripped the back of my head. "That was no kiss. Give her a nice, deep, long kiss. Show her how much you love her."

I pressed my lips against her, parted slightly, and gave a gentle sucking kiss. I wanted to die. She gasped, held me there a moment, and then let go of my hair. As I pulled away, the thought crossed my mind that women seemed to have a tangy flavor, and I disgusted myself with the casual analysis. "Very nice," she said. "I can tell you enjoyed that."

I could happily have killed her just then. She hopped off the table, grabbed the towel, and headed for the locker room, as I knelt there humiliated.

"Later, bitch," she called over her shoulder.

I sat there, alone and ashamed, late for my clerical lessons but needing to compose myself. I focused on my breathing, ignored the sore arm and sticky hand...tried but failed to ignore the strange scent on my lips. It took ten minutes before I could move.

When I left the locker room, my massage coach was walking towards me.

"I was just about to go in and get you," he said. "You're running late."

"I know, I..."

"Forget it," he cut me off, "but this is going on your evaluation."

"I under...wait," my body went cold, "what do you mean?"

"My evaluation of your massage work is due soon. Tardiness is strictly forbidden."

"I thought that...I thought that the girl in the room..."

"Tania?" He laughed. "God, no. She's just a receptionist. Takes other jobs for the pay. She's got no real power."

I felt pathetic. I'd been used.

"I...she told me..."

He looked at me hard as I trailed off, and then laughed. "You've been had, little girl."

"So, if you am I doing against the other girls?"

"What other girls?"

"Nevermind." I started to cry. I was pathetic. A toy, for other people to use.

He shuffled his feet. "Look, you're doing a good job here, alright? Don't...ah, don't let them get to you. You only work for her. Remember that. You only work for her."

It seemed I could smell her perfume then, and I felt calmer. I breathed in, and collected myself.

"Thank you," I said, looking up at him. He seemed to struggle with himself for a moment, and I became nervously aware that I was kneeling before him....once again prostrate before another person who had power over me and my future.

Finally, he smiled. "Just be careful, okay?"

"Okay," I said, standing. And then he left.

During all of this, my relationship with my husband was strong. It probably kept me moving, really. Chuck was great.

After the first few days, he understood enough to stop asking about what was happening. I hadn't told him about the personality training, and played down anything that wasn't mundanely clerical. I had decided not to hurt him with the worst of it. He already wore this new situation like a heavy coat, bearing him down and curving his back.

As part of our contract, we had access to a few things that he could pass the time with. Our apartment was directly next to Mrs. Carlisle's sprawling condo, in a building massive enough to contain all of the amenities and pleasures of a small town. He had access to a smaller employee library that had very limited fiction (nothing rebellious or anti-authority, of course, but plenty of Ann Rand). They also gave us access to movie theater #3...the one that only showed children's' films during the day and pornography during the evening. Lastly, he had access to the lower employee bar...the one for security guards and janitors.

"It's fine," he assured me. "Cartoons are awesome when you're drunk."

But it was obvious he was bored. In addition, my 10 hour training days and the abuse I had experienced was murdering my sex drive, so although I nodded when he complained about the dual beds I was secretly grateful.

And I couldn't stop dreaming about her. I had only seen her twice since signing, and then in passing, but I smelled her perfume and saw her long legs in my dreams. Not in a sexual way, but any intrusion was unwelcome.

I never told him about that, either.

I never said anything to Tania, or about Tania, again. I continued my massage practice, and felt a thick self-disgust in the pit of my soul every time I pressed my tongue against her flesh. Sometimes she giggled as she left the room, but she never said anything either. My god, I wanted to kill her. I had never felt such an intense loathing.

After two weeks of training, it was time.

The first time Jules led me into Mrs. Carlisle's office, I was terrified. It was a massive, circular room, not unlike the old photos I'd seen of the White House, in the old United States. There were couches along the walls, designed with the exact same curve the walls had. It seemed like a very, very powerful place.

My outfit helped. I'd half expected a slut uniform, and was surprised when Jules had personally delivered six boxes filled with semi-professional attire...high quality tank tops, with knee-length suit-outfit skirts. This had made Chuck feel much better.

But when he left me there, I still found myself lonely and nervous, knowing that her awesome presence would soon fill the room and I would be expected to remember all the training I'd had. Nerves tickled my skin, and I somehow knew that I would forget something. I focused hard on remembering what I'd learned...suddenly, it was very important to me to impress Mrs. Carlisle. I didn't even allow the sexual element of my position to cross my mind.

She burst through the doors. My training must have started bordering on instinct, because I was on my knees before I realized what was happening. I looked up as she swept past me, confident and electric. She was wearing a loose knee-length skirt that seemed to say "shopping trip" more than "CEO," and a similarly casual blouse. Somehow, though, she still looked tall and in charge. That mysteriously youthful mane swept across her shoulders as she turned and stood next to her desk. I suddenly became aware that, having watched so many hours of footage of her body, my mind very casually pictured her naked form underneath the outfit. I pushed it away, disgusted.

Her perfume caught my nose, and had that same mysteriously intoxicating effect. I didn't know what it was, and I didn't care for it. I shook my head, and wondered how I was going to be able to put up with it on such a long-term basis.

She wasn't alone. She'd been talking as she moved, dictating about some merger she was working on. A young girl, probably middle school aged and ironically the best dressed person in the room, followed her in listening and nodding. Her fingers moved quickly, over a keypad she held rather casually. They were incredibly fast. She didn't seem to need to look at what she was doing, and Mrs. Carlisle never slowed or paused for her to catch up.

I watched all of this, and felt ignored. Here these two were, the boss and a damned kid, treating me like furniture. I was embarrassed, but also strangely hurt by it all.

Standing now, beside her desk, with her hands on her hips, she looked down at the girl in front of her and finished with the dictation. The girl nodded as she typed, obviously not understanding half of the things she swiftly entered into the device. When it was finished, Mrs. Carlisle smiled down at her.

"Thank you, Miranda," she patted the girl on the cheek. In response, the child fairly beamed at the praise, and then popped out a small flash drive and handed it to Mrs. Carlisle. Then she looked around the room with a casual sense of place, her eyes not even resting on my prostrated form. This was nothing new to her, then.

"Do you, um, need me for anything else, ma'am?" She asked.

"Not today, Miranda. We'll have more work to do tomorrow. For now, you may go to class."

"Thank you, ma'am." She trotted off, moving past me without a word.

"They have such fast fingers."

I turned to see her watching me, as she sat down in the massive leather chair. Her smile revealed the light crows' feet and smile lines that were reminders of her age. I felt a sick little moment of pleasure to finally not be ignored.

"Children?" I asked.

"Yes, of course," she waved a hand in the air. "Video games and computers, I suppose. They practically live on them anymore. The ones who can," she emphasized that last word, "I mean. So, of course, who is better to take notes than a kid? I have a few favorites, who I pull out of the employee school on level 12 from time to time. The best part is that they don't understand a word of it all, so there are no risks for information leakage. She's forgotten every word of it already, the stupid bitch."

I didn't say anything. I didn't want to reveal that I hadn't understood much of it either, and had forgotten it as well. She watched me intently for a moment, and I felt a little foolish. Maybe she already knew.

"Anyway," she leaned back and turned the chair away from the desk, "everybody has their uses."

"She asked if there was anything else to do today. What other jobs does she do?"

She chuckled, a deep throaty assurance of amusement. "She only meant more typing. I often have many memos to produce." She was sideways to the desk, one elbow resting on it. A light twinkled in her eye. "Why in the world would you think such a thing as that?" She teased.

My face went hot, and surely red. "I didn't...I..."

"Oh, do shut up. We don't have anything scheduled for an hour, and I've been looking forward to this. Don't ruin it by talking."

I felt nervous fear, but it was muffled by the light-headed results of her perfume. Its effects reminded me of a weaker version of the drugs from my personality training.

"Come to me," she said.

Suddenly, I realized that I didn't know how I was supposed to approach. Could I stand and walk? Must I crawl to her? I panicked. I couldn't stall, I had to move. Learning forward, I crawled over to her on all fours. She watched with an amused smile, and I thought maybe I could have walked. If that was the case, she wasn't giving it away now.

I was now on all fours, about two feet in front of her. She was leaned back in her large leather chair, legs open slightly, and her skirt fell between them to hide that which I could no longer avoid.

She ran a finger across her forehead, wrapping it in a stray curl. "When I ask you to come," she said in a voice that was entirely too husky for my comfort, "you will come here." She pointed between her legs, and I saw that there was a soft leather pad, half as thick as the thinnest pillow and almost as wide. It was at the very foot of the chair. The middle and ends were a deep resonant brown, but there were too slight indentations that had turned a light tan. I wondered where the knees that once went there had gone to. And then I placed my own upon the marks.

I looked up, I suppose seeking some sort of approval. At least approval was a positive thing that I could hand on to. I wouldn't let myself be buried in the negative of it all.

Instead, I saw a cocky, proud smile as she reached one hand down and petted the top of my head. "Much better," she said. Her hand slipped across my shoulders to her own leg, moving upward and hooking her skirt with one finger. "Watch," she whispered, and then raised her skirt as though she was conducting a religious ceremony. As though I should be amazed.

I won't pretend that it looked much different than any other vagina, really. She kept it shaved, with a patch of fur just above the top. Her body was toned, and the whole display was not nearly as unpleasant as it might have been.

Her perfume's effect kept the panic at a distance.

"It looks better than Tania's, I think," she said. How did she know about that? I looked up at her, but she waved a finger shamingly. I returned my gaze to her sex.

"Lean in closer," she said. I did, and she was just three inches from me. "No, more. I want to feel your warmth." I moved forward, until her skin was gently touching mine and my lips and nose pressed lightly against her slit.

"Good girl," she said, and placed a hand lightly on the back of my head. It applied no pressure, but was ready to if I tried to move. We remained that way for a moment. "You don't want to do this." It wasn't a question. I shook my head lightly, my nose brushing her lips.

"Mmm," her left leg twitched beside me, "that felt good."

I froze. But she was right. With her body literally in my face, I suddenly knew I could not do this. I couldn't. The experience with Tania had been revolting enough, but this was something more. And this was not to be a single incident. This was a job.

She arched her hips gently, keeping one hand on the back of my head, so that her mons caressed my lips, almost like a gentle lover's kiss. It felt strange...soft and damp, but not repugnantly so. Certainly it felt better than it looked, or smelt. Then, she relaxed her grip, and I allowed myself the opportunity to pull back ever so slightly. I was aware that I was breathing fast, like a scared child might after a nightmare.

"It's a dark world out there," she ran one finger along the slit before pressing it firm and massaging her inner folds. "You and I know that survival is all about finding those with power, and adapting to them. It's what I did, and it's what little Miranda is doing." Her finger slipped up the pink folds of her vagina one last time. "You will have to do it, too. For your baby's sake, if not for your own." Then, she held the finger in front of me. "Clean it. With your tongue."

I hesitated, and she laughed. "Survival," she repeated, "is about learning to serve those who have the power." Then her hand on the back of my head tightened its grip, and her finger moved in so that the tip rested on my bottom lip. "Do it."

Maybe I would have been brave enough to leave, then. Foolish, strong, and proud. But kneeling there, with her moist finger running along my bottom lip and her arousal directly in front of me, I felt the baby kick. A strong one.

I was near sobbing, now. As I ran my tongue up and down her finger, my vision blurred with tears and my breath came in soft gasps. I barely even noticed the taste of her in my mouth. I did, however, hear the first intake of breath from above me when my tongue first made contact, and through my tears I saw the confident smile on her face as she slipped her digit in my mouth, burying it to the hilt, as I sucked her remaining juices off of it. Then she withdrew it.

"So is power about this?" I asked, trying to sound defiant and only coming across as pathetic. "Hurting others for your own amusement?"

She looked up for a moment, thinking, and then I felt her hand applying pressure again. "Power is a strange thing. Come closer." I relented to the pressure, until my nose was pressing softly against the skin directly of her slit once again and my lips once more gently teased her outer lips. "It's about control. But it's also about pleasure. Lick."

Only a small part of my brain tried to challenge this time, as my tongue started running up and down the outside of her vagina. Her perfume was affecting me so heavily I thought I might pass out. And this time, I was aware of her taste...not disgusting, not pleasant, but it seemed to go with the scent of the mysterious perfume. She sighed in pleasure, and one of her legs draped itself across my back. "But power," she continued, "is not about what you do to others. It's about what you do for yourself. And I don't mean wealth or status or material possession."

My tongue began exploring her in earnest, knowing what it had to do for this to end. Her hips began rotating against my movements, and she moaned. "No, my kitten," she positively purred as I felt her skirt come to rest softly atop my head, "power is all about this."

It was over in ten minutes. It had no major feeling of significance. It was almost an anti-event. She moaned and came, and then pushed me away.

Somehow, the whole thing was releaving. It was easier than I'd thought it would be. She sat relaxed, her skirt once again dipping to hide between her legs, taking long, deep breaths. Then, she shrugged.

"You'll get better," she said. As though I were seeking her approval.

Maybe I was, on some level, because the words bothered me.

"Now," she said, "the washcloth."

Of course. I was supposed to clean her, and then wash my face. I felt foolish for just sitting there, her juices on chin, as if I were hesitant to remove them. But I had forgotten, was all. I must not forget.

The washcloths were folded on a small sink area near her office alcohol collection. I moved towards it, but then she coughed.

"Nevermind," she smiled down at me, and lifted her skirt again. "I think I'd like another."

This time I didn't hesitate to lean in and start. It lasted longer, but she came twice. After the first few minutes she became more vocal, and active. Her hands gripped my hair and she bucked against my face. My tongue was tired, my knees grew sore, and yet it was all still much less awful than I had envisioned it would be.

The rest of the day was business-like, mostly meetings and paperwork. I would occasionally supply Mrs. Carlisle with a drink, and kneel there at her feet during meetings. That was awful, kneeling there like a pet while important and well-groomed people went about their business like it was nothing. I'm sure the presence of a human toy established the immensity of Mrs. Carlisle's power to everyone, and that's why I was there. Worst of all, she would occasionally reached down and stroke my head, as though I were a faithful dog.

My esteem suffered another blow when she excused herself to pee, and paused at the door when I didn't follow.

"Do not ever keep me waiting in front of others," she scolded me. "You will not care for the consequences." She was sitting on the porcelain, my tired knees were to the tiled floor, and I could hear her urine splashing the water. Then, to my horror, she scooted forward. "Clean me," she commanded, parting her legs.

I wanted to be sick. I closed my eyes to it. Still, not wanting to invite further irritation, I leaned in and lapped at her quickly. I could only barely taste her urine, so I could ignore it as I finished my work quickly and leaned back. Strangely, she was looking at me with a mild expression of shock.

"I meant use the paper," she said, and a grin spread across her face. "But I like your idea better. Yes," she petted my head and stood up, "I think we'll stick with it from now on."

I wanted to die.

We played a game of tennis before supper. She destroyed me, moving gracefully in her professional-style skirt and top. My uniform didn't fit nearly as well, and I wasn't a tenth the player she was. She gave me tips, and asked about my life. She even told me a few things about herself...her husband had been killed in a violent conflict between his company (now hers) and a rival...and by the time the game ended I felt a little more like a confidant and a little less like a slave. But only a little.

Anyway, the reality of my situation was right back on display when the game ended, we showered, and then she laid down for her after-game massage. I worked every trick I knew, hoping she might fall asleep, but soon my thumbs were aching and she was shifting her legs.

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