Gertrude Stinker
Ashamed, I sat alone in my car and examined the freshly produced documents. Everything had arrived from the firm that morning, and finding it in the mailbox, I felt obliged to open the manilla envelope.
On each and every piece of identification, from my driver's license to my social security card, the name Gertrude Stinker was brazenly embossed. It was official, and the humiliation of it seemed more real, suddenly.
I sighed, slipped the envelope into my brief, and exited the car. No, it wasn't my Bentley, which I'd been so proud to drive until recently. It was a sensible choice for a legal assistant, the green Toyota Yaris would sit diminutively in the space next to the Bentley when it was there. As promised, Vanessa had taken the luxury car from me, and I had signed it over willingly.
So, as I made my way up the stairs, I knew that today was the day that Vanessa would also be taking ownership of the townhouse. I could never afford such an extravagance now, and I supposed I was grateful that she was willing to take it off my hands.
Even though I owed a further ten payments on the mortgage, she was willing to take the property at par, with no monies exchanged. Deep down, I knew I was basically giving the place to her, as I had my car. She had so completely dominated my life by then, I felt I had no other option.
I would be allowed to stay there, as her live-in servant, in exchange for my compliance, and that was more than I deserved. Of course, I would no longer be staying in the bedrooms of the house. Vanessa had made arrangements for a carpenter to make some alterations to the basement, and that would be where I would reside.
It would be some time before my superior would be home, so I made my way down to my living quarters. They were humble, as would be expected of a woman of my standing. A bedroom and a bath, and that was all. The furnishings were cheaply made and well-used, giving the room a run-down appearance.
My clothing too had been replaced with bargains from Penny's and Walmart, and even though my work clothes had the look of a professional they were far from what I had been used to for so many years. While at home, I would shed them anyway, as Vanessa insisted that I remain naked at all times there.
That of course included my wig, which I was surprised she had allowed me to keep. Apparently, the other partners scoffed at the idea of a bald woman running around the office, regardless of her station. I knew that they all knew then, but how much else had they assumed?
I slipped the wig from my smooth head and onto the wig stand, perched too proudly on the old dresser which was missing some of its hardware. Running a hand over my head, an electric thrill coursed through my sex as I contemplated the permanence of it.
Of course, Vanessa had insisted that I use my own money to pay for the electrolysis treatments. It had been six months, and well over ten thousand dollars' worth of treatments, but I was well and truly bald.
Vanessa seemed to revel in the notion that I had paid for it from my own limited resources. She would often muse,
'See what you're doing to yourself, Stinker? Why, if you keep this up, you'll be bald as a coot.'
Then she would run her hand over it, with a disgusted sneer on her face, calling me a pig or whatever other demeaning title she would endow me with.
I quickly showered and dried, checking myself thoroughly as I stood in the full-length mirror mounted on the back of the bathroom door. My new tattoo was fully healed now, an addition to my 'lil stinker' adorning my hairless cunt. I think when Vanessa discovered I would never be allowed to go without my wig at the firm, she felt the need to make up for the loss.
I turned my head, attempting to read the entire script, but the crown of letters encircled my skull perfectly,
Property of Vanessa Worth.
Fortunately, the tattoo was well concealed by my wig, and not nearly as demeaning as the skunk. Still, when I first saw it, I was more than a little shocked.
In a way, the tattoo was quite endearing, at least I liked to think so. Was I truly her property? In every way but on paper. I supposed I was. I was certainly treated as her property, not only at home, but at the office as well; although when there, her lewd behavior toward me was more restricted.
With practice, I had become her toilet and she rarely used the bathroom to urinate. I was grateful that she found the notion of scat distasteful. Did she ever worry that no one ever saw her use her bathroom? I supposed as it was private, she didn't worry. I had quickly learned not to spill any of her nectar, or I'd be wearing it the balance of the day.
Vanessa would call me to her office a few times during the day and simply point to her feet. "Toilet, Ms. Stinker." Once there, I would seal my mouth over her sex and accept her water as I might drink from a tap. The revulsion of the act long since worn away, I considered it just another of my duties as her legal assistant.
In celebration of her taking ownership of the townhouse, she intended to take me to the club that night. Her caseload had been heavy of late, and although I did most of the legwork and wrote most of the arguments, Vanessa took all the credit. She had become the new rising star in the firm, and even though I knew it was on my shoulders, I was powerless to speak of it.
She had even gone so far as to have me tutor her on courtroom strategies, the very thing that had won me my partnership years before. She would often brag about her wins to me, disregarding the fact that I had played such a pivotal part in them. I knew she did it deliberately, and effectively as well.
As I heard the front door slam, I knew my reverie was at an end, and quickly made my way upstairs. As she walked through the house, I kneeled in my normal place in the kitchen. Without saying a word, she strolled in and lifted her skirt. I knew she had been drinking as I rarely had trouble keeping up with her flow. Even so, I didn't spill.
"It's official." She looked about, and even though the townhouse had been hers in everything but name, there was something different about the way she admired it. "You're homeless." Allowing for a little sarcasm to taint her words.
"Yes, Mistress. Thank you, Mistress." I said, clearly, but submissively.
"Of course." She knew she had promised to allow me to stay there, but there was always that modicum of doubt. I was, in fact, homeless, save for the generosity of my superior.
