I- Paying the bill
It is Saturday evening. I'm just relaxing with a book as a hard and insistent ringing of the doorbell tears through the silence, snapping me out of my stillness. I look at my watch, then at the clock on the wall. Nine thirty. Who could that be?
When I open the door I am surprised to see a pretty woman, with thick dark and wavy curls that frame an enchanting and earnest face. She looks like in her early twenties and is very beautiful. Wearing a long coat she eyes me without saying a thing. Just stands there.
It takes a moment before I realize I know her from somewhere. Then it dawns upon me: she is that gorgeous girl who was sitting next to that big guy in his large luxurious car, the huge and shiny two-seating American convertible that last week had pulled into my repair shop. With its roof down it was a bragging display of excessive wealth, its exorbitant interior full of shiny metal, leather, plush and even fur.
The guy looked as if he owned me, my shop, the world. Stone rich, big blinking rings on his manicured fingers and dressed expensively, he was white haired and his tanned face showed he'd been catching too much sun. Without even getting out, he called me from behind the wheel. If maybe I could have a look at the motor. Seemed it made some funny noises. He spoke to me loud and in a disturbingly jovial manner, as if I were a close friend owing him one. It was a bit irritating. I'd never seen him before. But a rich customer is always welcome in my small garage, whatever his behavior. And that dashing girl sitting next to him, taking off her sunglasses to reveal large sparkling eyes, smiled happily at me. She was a sight to behold.
They both stayed in their seats while I found and fixed a broken part, and soon they drove off, throwing me a small gold-rimmed business card with a post box address. Good enough for me. I mailed my bill the next day, having overpriced the repair considerably. These people can pay whatever I want.
And now that girl suddenly stands at my doorway. Although a bit paler in her face than last week, she still looks gorgeous. Better actually than last week, as I can now admire the full outlines of her shape.
"You're the girl from that super car, aren't you?"
She nods. "I've come to... eh... pay you, sir," The seriousness of her stare beautifies the light in her eyes. But she seems nervous and her face wears a somewhat forced smile, "My husband has sent me."
I glance behind her onto the street. No car in sight. "What do you mean, haven't you received my bill? Bank account is on it. You don't have to come to pay me personally."
"I know, sir," she says, "We got the bill, but my husband sent me anyway. Maybe I should come in?"
"Of course." I step aside. One doesn't keep a woman like that on the wrong side of one's door.
She enters my apartment. Her hips move like waves rippling through a quiet lake. I have to catch my breath when I take her coat, its collar adorned with a little strip of dark fur. Standing there before me in my living quarters, looking up at me with those big eyes, she is even more spectacular than when sitting with that guy in his expensive car. She's much smaller than I remember, a lot shorter than I am, but she's got contours to bite into. Sexuality radiates from her. My heart skips a beat. I show her into my living room, and soon we sit opposite each other, holding cups of tea.
"So you've come to pay me?"
She tries to smile again, but the corners of her mouth remain tense. "Well... yes sir."
"You pay his bills?"
"No sir, I don't... I mean..." She takes a sip of tea, and hesitates. "Excuse me, sir, but I've never before done this eh... kind of errand..., sir." Her words come hesitatingly and have a ring of embarrassment.
"So?" I put my teacup on the table, looking at her expectantly.
But instead of clarifying herself she just lowers her head in some kind of confusion, like not knowing what to say, and remains silent. I watch her breasts. They slightly heave and descend with her breathing. There is silence in the room. Until I finally break it. "Well then," I say, smiling at her, "do you bring money?"
She does not answer and for quite some time we both remain silent. Finally she lifts her pretty head again and looks up at me as if wanting to tell me something. But still she remains silent. I wonder what's worrying her. Her eyes now clearly betray discomfort. I raise a brow, a question on my face.
Sensing my need for an answer she finally says in a small voice: "It's not... I mean..., I have no money with me." And again there is that nervous look and the forced smile.
"I don't understand. Why did you come here then? You said you came to pay, didn't you?"
"Well, yes sir. But it's my husband sir, he... he has sent me to you."
I am puzzled. "Is he not satisfied with the repair?"
"No, no, that's OK sir," she says quickly, almost urgently. But then she falls silent once more, and watches the teacup in front of her with those large beautiful eyes.
"You're talking in riddles, dear."
Again no response. But after a while, looking down at the floor, she begins to speak. Softly and barely audibly. "Sir, he wants..." She hesitates, searches for the right words. "I... I mean... my husband... I mean I'm..." Faltering she stops speaking and, as if bracing herself for bravery, takes a deep breath. And then, suddenly, she bursts out crying, putting her face in her hands.
Alarmed at this turn of events, my first impulse is to go up to her and put an arm around her shoulder. But I restrain myself. She's such a sexy girl that maybe that kind of behavior would be misinterpreted and make her feel even more embarrassed. So I wait until she recaptures some calm, wipes the wetness from her eyes and forces another apologetic smile.
Carefully I ask: "Did I say something to hurt you?" I realize I'm afraid to speak too loud.
She shakes her head, and seems to regain some control over herself. "No sir, its not that, sir, I'm sorry." She swallows. "I'm really sorry sir..."
"So, what's the matter? I just don't understand. Have you lost the money or something?"
"No sir," she says again, "that's not it." She swallows again several times. Then, quite unexpectedly, a dam seems to burst and she suddenly blurts it all out: "I'm here, sir, because he wants... he wants me to serve you."
The words both startle and confuse me. "What? What did you say?"
But she remains silent, her eyes downcast.
"I'm not sure I understand," I finally say, "What do you mean?"
Still keeping her gaze on her feet she softly speaks, almost in a whisper: "That's what my husband told me to say to you, sir." She is quiet for a moment. Then, barely audibly, she says: "I'm here as payment sir, you may want to use me."
"What?! " Suddenly I stand at a precipitous abyss.
A tense silence envelops the room. Neither of us says a thing for a long time. Finally she raises her gaze and, staring at me with a wetness glistening in her eye, tries to force another apologetic smile. Then, very slowly a deep blush colors her face.
"You're blushing," I say, not knowing what else to say.
"Yes sir, I know," she whispers, lowering her head now in obvious distress and humiliation.
That subdued gesture tips me over the line, and in a flash I realize the full extent of her mission. Straight away my imagination runs amok. "You mean… you're to eh… I mean… if I want to…?" I gasp. There is no need to be more clear and mention my bed.
She nods silently.
A great surge of adrenaline injects into my veins. This is crazy! Absolutely crazy! I look at her inquisitively. This can't be serious!
But it seems clear to her that her message has been received. A tear gently drops down her face as she whispers: "Yes sir… you may do with me whatever you wish, sir."
The words take a long time to register.
***
II - Clarifications
"What's your name?"
"Anna, sir."
She keeps addressing me dutifully with that "sir". There is something very erotic in her use of that word, a suggestion of humility and obedience. "Tell me Anna, does your husband always pays his dues this way?"
Her mouth moves almost imperceptibly. "No sir." Again she seems to look for words but, unable to find them, she remains silent.
"He sent you here telling you to... eh... to offer yourself as... as payment...?"
Silently se nods.
I'm quiet for a moment. "And you let him?"
Another nod, barely noticeable.
"Forgive me Anna," I say, blood pounding in my temples, "this is rather unusual." To calm down I take a slow sip of tea, then look again at her breasts. Is this a dream? He sends his wife to me to be used as a prostitute, just for a car repair? It can't be true! I take a deep breath. Is this a trap? For want of other things to say, I ask again: "You don't object?"
She raises her head and looks up at me now. There is real despondency in her eyes. "I'm not consulted, sir," she says.
I am taken aback. "But..."
She interrupts me: "That's how he is, sir. Likes to... I mean… kinky things, sir...." Once again she falls silent and we remain quiet for a long time. The old clock on my wall chimes ten times. I feel definitely sexually aroused, but at the same time I'm very uneasy.
"Kinky eh," I finally say, as if to confirm that I understand.
She looks at me, but gives no answer.
"You and your husband...," I ask putting care in my voice, "are you... I mean... is this a game between the two of you, or what?"
She hesitates. "No sir," she says, "It's not really a game, sir. It's just him, sir. He likes to eh… force me.. to do things with me," and softly she ads: "It's not easy sir, but I've no choice, I'm his wife."
I'm not amazed. If I were married to this sexy morsel, I'd also like to do all kinds of things with her. "Has he ever asked you this sort of thing before?"
She shakes her head. "No sir, never."
Both of us remain quiet. In the end I put to her the only question that remains to be asked, although it might seem impertinent: "Do you love him, Anna?"
She remains silent for a long time, as if making up her mind, but finally she gives a tiny affirmative nod. "Yes sir, I do," she says downcasting her eyes and blushing fiercely, "and very much. That's why I married him."
***
III - First cash
"Well then... why don't you come over to me here Anna, and sit next to me," I say, suddenly feeling reckless, and with a pounding heart I tap the couch besides me with the flat of my hand.
To my great delight she obeys, and soon we sit close enough for me to breath in her appetizing scent. But she remains motionless. She's obviously forcing herself. Her eyes remain lowered, her hands on her knees. Waiting.
I smile. "You know, Anna," I say slowly, "I feel kind of kinky myself. I might take you up on your words, I mean your husband's. What do you think?"
"You may do as you wish, sir," she whispers.
So, reassuring myself with some effort, I take the initiative and gently place a hand on her knee.
She freezes.
