The week after Mrs. Jennifer Simpson moved into the house with me was a huge adjustment. I was utterly unaccustomed to having someone living with me. All of my life I had privilege and the isolation such wealth could bring and some in spite of it. In my majority, I sought solitude in my private life because I was in such constant demand in my public life. I kept the two separate and distinct.
Mrs. Simpson made that distinction much more difficult. That first night, after Liza (fucked) and Val (unfucked, but eaten) left my house, when I went to bed, Mrs. Simpson ended up on the floor at the foot of my bed. I know this because she was there, nude, curled up in a tight ball, the next morning when I woke, shivering and chilled to the bone. She was sore and hobbled when I roused her and aghast that I was awake before her. She had it in her mind to have breakfast or at least coffee waiting for me before I woke. Nude, shivering, and nearly in tears for her failure to "serve" properly, I sent her to make eggs and ham while I showered. It was the first step in the process of owning a genuine sex object. At breakfast, I encountered an hesitancy that, when explored turned out to be attached to my lack of insisting on a morning blow job. It was the beginning, as I say, and an adjustment. Sex, for me, was an event and not a routine and I resolved to adjust her thinking.
The week turned into a practical compromise between her fantasy of being a sex object and the realities of physical life in someone else's house. It was during this time that I discovered, well, validated really, her penchant for service and her demand for denial. Her solicitude threatened to be stultifying. I had to remind myself time after time that I owned her so I could wield her servitude any way I liked so long as I properly expressed my satisfaction. To this I added the stipulation that it had to satisfy her deepest pleasure. Still, owning her was the thing, using her was the task.
This did not come naturally to me because, if my passed parents taught me anything, wealth was a resource and the most valuable things in the world you could not buy with it. Loyalty. Trust. Respect. Most people might include love in that list but of that I am far less certain and that uncertainty can be very disconcerting. I ignored that lesson about wealth after my parents died but I was surrounded by a group of very capable, strong and fearless people who refused to leave me to stew in my own juices when I got it wrong.
Mrs. Simpson, it turned out, was made of similar stuff. She always hesitated when I neglected to tell her what to do or when I failed to treat her like an object, a sex object. For three days, I worked—things got complicated because of a snafu my sister had caused through sheer bad luck. It was not her fault, just one of those things that happen. I assumed she understood the differences between two subsidiaries and she did not. She...no matter. She made a mistake and I had to spend three days directing our attorneys in unraveling the snafu.
When I work, I focus and the world around me disappears; one of the things I love about my work and why I ignored vacations so often, perhaps an additional explanation for why I remained eligible and single. I am good at what I do, despite my youth, and part of that is the ability to ignore the rest of my life in favor of work. This is disconcerting if you live with someone, which is why I had to that point cordoned off the emotional part of my life with physical distance. What is more, I created a "leisure identity" (Joshua Gale) into which I could slip. I literally shuffled off my mortal coil and became someone else. This situation, this woman, however, seemed destined to blur these distinctions. It was unique.
In this instance, that was not possible in the way I did it before. Before, I just left work and became Joshua Gale for a night or a weekend or whatever, then went back to work. Here I had to switch back and forth from Alan Livingston and Joshua Gale several times a day. That was new. I had to be careful to not expose her to Alan and his world and to keep both world's distant and mysterious so she would not notice the fissure between them. I had as much to learn as did Mrs. Simpson about the ways of my sex slave. No, sex object. She was not a slave to be disposed of as a slave would be, but an object to be used. There is a difference. She was my blond sex object. I had to learn its uses. I had to learn its benefits, while fulfilling my role, one I was ill-suited to.
The third night I brought her to my bed. She tapped at my door as instructed, when she heard my shower end. I invited her in. She slipped inside the door and stood shivering in her flimsy red negligee. I had the heat programmed to end about nine and it was quarter to one. I had told her to come to my room after I finished, sure I would be done by eight or so but worked till midnight before I got things wrapped up and Sharon calmed enough to let her off the phone. I always had to be circumspect about talking with my sister but since her name had been different, it was easier. I referred to my sister as Ms. Livingston and she called me Mr. Gale so if anyone overheard our conversations they would not get confused.
Anyway, dear Jennifer stood in the room shivering. I was mortified and pulled a blanket off the foot of the bed and cuddled her into it. She responded warmly, molding herself to me as I ushered her to the bed. I asked if she was ready—not specifying ready for what—and she nodded, saying she was done with her toilet and was...ready. She smiled shyly. In retrospect, I believe she was a bit intimidated and unnerved at having been more or less ignored for three days after making such a broad, open-ended commitment. Till that moment, I don't think I really felt the import of that commitment but then, in that moment, I finally did.
"Get in bed, I'll be right there."
She did and I finished my toilet, adding some good aroma to my natural musk and other such niceties. I turned off the light in the bath, leaving the bedside lamp the only light in the room. Jennifer glowed in the dark, her rich blond curls splayed on the pillow, her womanly form rippling underneath the bed covers. I normally sleep in a cold room, windows open in the winter so I have lots of blankets. She lay on the near side of the bed so I went around the bed to the other side, rather than shove in beside her. She lay with her eyes closed and still as a mummy. I found I was nervous; a curious thing in the presence of this "sure thing" who desired to be taken sexually.
I hesitated on "my" side of the bed, curious because of the thrill of this moment that echoed through me. I "owned" this woman and she wanted to be used. That simple thought aroused my cock and it was fully erect when I clicked off the light. The master bedroom—a curiously appropriate term under the circumstances was on the front side of the house and so received light from the street. The room was an Escher-esque cut of angles and shadows, blacks and grays and Jennifer's breathing with its erotic innuendo.
I got into bed.
For a moment, I lay on my back, letting the rigors of the last three days seep out of my muscles. I had worked out just once in the basement the day before. The scalding shower had eased some of the tension of intense focus but now, lying down in the silent darkness, I found there was more to be dismissed. I sighed deeply.
It was odd because Jennifer merely lay still, not moving, barely breathing. In the past when I crawled into bed with a woman, she was on me like a hungry cat offered tuna, swirling and suffocating. This experience was profoundly different. Jennifer waited. I had the profound experience of taking time to think about what could bring us both the most pleasure. I actually thought about that, still not shifted out of the digital mode required for manipulating and interpreting spreadsheets and their contents. It turned into a curious period of foreplay, for us both. While I mentally fingered the possibilities, my cock grew hard with approval with each option I touched. Beside me, Jennifer's breathing got deeper and deeper till she was nearly panting with anticipation. I liked hearing her arousal. Finally, I reached over with my hand till I felt the heat emanating from her body. I touched her elbow and it shifted towards me, increasing the contact.
"Oh." She said, humming around the word.
I heard her readiness in her tone. I turned on my side and with my other hand, found the hollow of her hip, the dip just past the hipbone.
"Uhhh." She moaned.
I wanted her to speak but did not want to command it. I wondered if words were part of her arousal or inferences. I ran my hand down the silk of her negligee, over the swell of her thigh. The leg moved under my touch; I understood she had opened her legs. The realization shot through me and for a moment I resisted the urge to just take her. Her willing invitation fluttered in me, like a moth against a window, trap be alive. I had used the back of my hand to caress her thigh but now turned it and gripped her, pulling her leg wider.
Jennifer moaned, still no words. Her leg moved wider till her thigh brushed against mine. The contact sizzled.
"I want you." I whispered fervently.
She lay in the angled darkness, I could just see her eyes were closed. She spoke carefully. "I am yours."
In perfect consonance with my desire, I felt her pull the drape of the negligee out from under my hand on her thigh. Our skin touched. She sucked air through her teeth. The last chill of the cold house left me. That little brush with her flesh and a fire roared up in me. My cock throbbed with an anticipation that began in my chest and suffused my whole body. Her hand found mine and moved it directly to her pussy, pressing it against her flesh. She hissed, her breath fluttered at the contact. Her pussy was smooth and damp, slick and swollen. I ran a finger up her furrow. Her hips bunched and rose, trying to entrap my finger with her pussy. She held her breath.
I bent over her and found her lips with mine. She exhaled, then panted with desire, trying to kiss me and gasp at the same time as I entered her with my finger, shoving deep into her. The move mangled her kiss, making it wet and sloppy and ragged as she grunted, arching up to meet my lips with her open mouth while trying to raise her ass to get my finger into her deeper. She strained for a moment but then seemed to be discouraged by the contortion and fell back head and ass, to the bed.
I moved between her legs. With one hand planted beside her shoulder and the other holding my cock, I found the entrance to her pussy and shoved into her. Her moist pussy accepted the penetration. Jennifer sighed and lay back, widening her legs in the most welcoming of gestures. Her body clinched onto my cock, clasping me in the wet, slick and sensuous grasp of her cunt, a flowering flow of lust pulling me down into her. Her body bucked and we slammed together. My hands moved immediately to her ass. Her knees slithered up the sides of my body, stroking me with the insides of her thighs and knees. The silk negligee ruffled between us, lubricating our bodies as we collapsed together.
