Sara's Comeuppance

(This is a sequel to "Get Yer Kit Off".)

"The Piranha Bar?" I asked. "That's the bar my roommate Sara works at."

"Oh yeah, you mean the one who likes to watch you walk around naked?" my friend Greg asked over the phone.

"Um...yeah, something like that," I said, trying to hint that it was something more sexual, while wincing at the memory of my week of humiliation at Sara' hands only a month ago.

"Well yeah," Greg said, "my company just bought that bar. Sealed the deal this afternoon. So come on over for some free drinks!"

"All right," I said, "sounds like a plan. Let's do it."

"Peace, dude."

"Peace."

Ten minutes later Sara walked in, holding a bag full of new clothes. In earlier times, I would have teased her about being such an impulse buyer, but ever since the incident with the bet, our dynamic had changed. Every time I thought about making a nasty comment, I suddenly remembered the feeling of meekly stripping off my underwear in front of her and massaging her feet. Every time I thought about refusing to do some work around the apartment, I had a flashback of sitting naked and aroused in the living room while her drunk friends checked me out and took fake swipes at my balls. Though that ordeal was long over, I didn't get on her case much these days.

"Hey Sara," I said.

"Hey Chris."

"I hear your bar is going to be under new management."

"Where'd you hear that?" she asked. "Well, that's wrong. We rejected their final offer today."

She started putting her clothes away.

"You sure about that?" I asked. "I have it on good information that your bar just got sold to Diamond Partners."

"Look," she said, coming over to stand with her hand on her cocked hip - what I thought of as the "bitchy British girl" pose. "I was just in my manager's office, and he also happens to be the owner of the bar, and what he knows, I know. And I happen to know that the deal's off."

I shrugged, and she went back to hanging up her new clothes. I was absolutely sure she was wrong - Greg had never failed to give me timely information. He had used the past tense when telling me about the sale. Sara was apparently blowing hot air again. I watched her put away her clothes, tracing the line of her hip past the waist of her low-slung jeans, over a band of creamy tight midriff, to the tight striped shirt above. Sara wuld be one nice-looking girl, I thought, if she weren't such a cocky jerk.

Then an idea sprang into my mind, and I instantly got butterflies in my stomach. The last time I had tried this it hadn't worked out so well, but sometime life is all about doubling your bets.

"Hey," I called. "Wanna make it a bet?"

"What," she asked, "Whether the bar got sold, which it most absolutely didn't?"

"Yeah," I called back. "Let's bet on it. You like to bet, right?"

She came back again to stand in front of me, arms crossed, staring own at me wide-eyed. Now I realized she was in a pretty bad mood.

"Are you a masochist or something?" she asked. "Don't you remember what happened the last time you tried this?"

"I think I recall pretty clearly," I said, smiling and leaning back. "Want to make another bet on the same terms?"

"You like walking around naked in front of girls then, do you?" she asked. "Course I wouldn't make you do that again. But the apartment does need a lot of cleaning, so if you're up for that, let's make the bet."

"OK," I said. "But you're going to lose."

"I seem to recall that's what you said last time," she sighed. "Well, whatever. How long will you be my slave this time?"

"As long as you want," I said.

"Well let's shorten it to five days this time," she said. "I thought you'd been pretty well put in your place, but it looks like you've jumped right back out again."

"Sure," I said, ignoring the all-too-accurate jibe about being put in my place. "If the bar got sold, you're my slave for five days, same terms as last time."

"Whatever," she said, and we shook. "Better get ready for some cleaning."

And with that, she went back to hanging up her clothes...

* * *

Sara threw the vacuum cleaner handle against the wall.

"Pants, Sara," I said.

"Bugger off," she spat, glaring at me with her arms crossed over her bra.

"What was that?" I said, cupping my hand to my ear in mock confusion. "Did I just hear you say 'Bugger off'?"

She said nothing and looked away.

"Pants, Sara," I repeated.

Finally, sighing theatrically, she took off her sweatpants and tossed them into her room, then crossed her arms again and looked at me evilly. It was the second day of Sara's turn to be the slave. Instead of making her strip completely (the way she had done to me), I had devised an even more ingenious method of taking the wind out of her sails. Whenever she said anything rude or showed anger, I'd tell her to take off an article of clothing. If she complained, it would be another. And I always demanded the clothes in one-word sentences, which for some reason made it more of a fun routine.

Sara in her underwear was always a pleasant sight. She was wearing plain purple bra and panties, although I strongly suspected she more commonly wore a thong. Her skin was pale, her legs were solid but shapely. I stood there for a moment looking her up and down.

"Is there something you'd like me to do, or are you going to stand there and gawk at me all afternoon?" Sara asked, drumming her fingers on her arm.

"Hmm, I said, "I'm thinking."

"You mean, you're thinking, 'Boy I wish I was hot enough so that Sara would ever possibly consider sleeping with me'?" she shot.

I grinned. "Actually, I was thinking that the only way to get the kitchen floor really really clean would be to use a toothbrush."

"Oh fuck off!" she shouted, putting her hands on her hips in indignation.

"Man," I laughed, "You just don't know how to keep your mouth shut, do you? Bra."

Her eyes widened for a second. Up until now, I had kept it pretty clean, never making her strip down past her underwear. But, where I had suffered in silence, she had kept up a pretty constant stream of rebellious vulgarity and insults, and I thought the time had come to show her exactly what kind of situation she had landed herself in.

"Come on, bra," I said, waving my hand.

"No way."

"You ready to back out?" I said cheerfully. "That wasn't long."

It was exactly how she had kept me in line, and I could tell that it particularly rankled having me use her own tactic against her. Snorting in disgust, Sara reached around back and undid the clasp of her bra. I tried not to let her see my excitement on my face, and I might even have held my breath as I saw Sara's breasts for the first time.

They really were one of the nicer pairs I had ever seen, though I wasn't about to tell her that. I was half tempted to take her panties too, but something told me it would be a little more humiliating to let her worry about me taking them instead. Letting her hold on to her final shred of dignity was, in a way, crueller than just taking it all away at once. Briefly, I wondered when I had become such an evil bastard.

Sara's bra slipped down and off, and she caught it in one hand. "This is sexual harassment, this is," she muttered.

"What," I snorted, "and slapping me in the balls wasn't? Or making me do jumping jacks for your friends?"

"Well you bloody deserved it," she said.

I took a step toward her and her hands instinctively moved to cover her breasts, but stopped short.

"Wanna lose the rest?" I asked, smiling. She just looked away silently.

"All right," I said, forcing myself to look away from the excellent specimen of chest on display. "I hear the kitchen floor calling, better get that toothbrush."

I walked away, a little awkwardly, trying not to reveal the stiffness that had developed in the front of my pants.

It was going to be a fun few days.

* * *

I almost skipped home from work. The image of Sara filled my mind - on her knees, scrubbing the floor with a toothbrush, with nothing but a pair of underpants to preserve her modesty. All day long I had been contemplating how to follow up on that triumph. The key question, I thought to myself, was how to embarrass her even after all her clothes were inevitably lost. Corporal punishment was out, as far as I was concerned - Sara was a girl, after all, albeit a remarkably cocky and evil one, and I have at least some morals. I would have to think of something better.

But I found that Sara was way ahead of me. As soon as I opened the door of our apartment, I saw her standing in the kitchen, stark naked except for a pair of black stiletto heels. Her hair was flipped to one side like some kind of tropical resort waitress, and she had stuck a yellow flower in it. Before I could react - in fact before I could do anything except stare like an idiot at the trimmed stripe of her pubic hair - she walked right up to me, swaying her hips and holding out a wet towel.

"Um...uh..." was all I could manage as she lifted the towel and wiped my face off. She had put on perfume, and the combination of the scent and the closeness of her body was overpowering. I gingerly closed the door behind me and stood there while she finished silently patting me down.

"You must be exhausted, Master Chris" she said sweetly - surprising me again, as sweetness is generally not Sara's strong suit. "Would you care for a drink?"

I could only nod mutely. As she walked to the kitchen - me watching her swaying posterior all the way - my mind raced to figure out what she was up to. It was true that stripping down on her own spared her the indignity of doing it piece by piece at my command, but it must gall her to serve me like this.

Sara returned with a martini (!) and pressed it into my hands. "Thank you, Sara," I said, sipping it gratefully. It was, of course, expertly made. "You're certainly...um...everything a slavemaster could wish for."

She smiled and batted her eyes, which looked almost comical coming from Sara. "You're too kind, Master Chris" she said, and I tried to detect the sarcasm I knew must be there. "Come sit down and rest your feet."

She ushered me to the recliner and sat me down. As I sipped my martini and tried to be surreptitious about ogling her body, Sara knelt down in front of me and started taking off my shoes.

"Um, what are you doing?" I asked a little nervously, feeling even more aroused as she stripped off my socks.

"Don't you want a foot massage?" she asked innocently, looking up at me with wide eyes.

"Uh...you really don't have to..." I stammered.

"Nonsense," she declared. "I'm your slave, and I obey your every whim."

And with that, she wiped my bare feet off with a towel and started rubbing them. I couldn't deny that it did feel amazing after a long day, and coupled with the constant view of large swaths of naked Sara, it was truly heavenly. At one point she even got up and pulled some olive oil off the shelf, and began to rub that into my feet. I closed my eyes and almost groaned with pleasure.

This was amazing. I was living every man's dream, sipping a martini and getting a foot massage from an attractive naked woman. Why was she giving me this opportunity?

"I expect Master Chris will be having some gentleman friends over tonight or tomorrow?" Sara asked.

The question surprised me. Actually I had been planning to have a few guys over to the house on Thursday, the last night of Sara's tenure as a slave. It was going to have been my grand finale - my revenge for the humiliating night that Sara had made me serve her girlfriends. I had relished the image of my friend Greg telling her "Pants!" and watching her fume and argue and eventually give in and strip down in front of everyone.

"I'm looking forward to serving your friends," Sara said. "After all, a woman's natural place is to serve men."

And there went my fantasy. Suddenly I was disgusted at the idea of Sara, naked in my living room, getting catcalled and teased by a bunch of guys. We would be the Boys' Club, the male masters in our smoky backroom, with a submissive woman to cater to our needs and titillate us with her body. In other words, we'd be a bunch of dirty old men who no woman in her right mind would ever have sex with of her own free will.

Then I realized what Sara was up to. When she had resisted my commands, it had been a game, me taking her cocky personality down a peg like she had done to me. Every time I made her do something embarrassing, it was like a little sexual conquest and I had felt like a man. But now, with her willingly playing the part of an honest-to-goodness slave, I just felt sleazy.

Damn, Sara, I thought, you're good.

The foot massage completed (I felt like a year's worth of stress had been lifted off me), Sara stood up and cocked her hips, and I nearly burst right out of my pants.

"Is there anything else you'd like, Master?" Sara asked.

"No, that's all right," I said. "The place looks pretty clean, so..."

"Then if you don't mind, I'm going to go fold my laundry," Sara said. "Since I unfortunately have to go to work tonight and will not be available to serve you. Would you care to watch me fold?"

"That's ok," I said, waving my hand, even though my brain was screaming "Yes! Yes!"

"By your leave," she said, giving a little bow and walking away. I could have sworn I saw the tiniest little smirk on her face just before she turned around. As I watched her rear end retreat into her room, I grimaced. One way or another, I was going to figure out some way to defeat this little stratagem of hers.

"You know what?" I called out, sipping my martini and getting up, "I think on second thought that I will watch you fold laundry."

Dirty old man I might be, but no one was looking.

* * *

I showed my ID to the bouncer at the Piranha Bar and stepped in. Piranha was in the glitzy new section of downtown, so there were a lot of good-looking trendy young people there. It was a one-floor place with a bar island in the middle, where three bartenders and a couple barbacks scurried back and forth, handing out drinks and collecting tips. From the look of it, those tips must be quite a hall. Now I knew how Sara could afford all those nice shoes...

I sat down at the bar just as I saw Sara oming out of the kitchen. She was dresed in a nice tight black top and a tan skirt. I grinned to myself when I thought of how many guys in the bar must stare at her when she wasn't looking, and how jealous they would be if they knew I got to go home and see everything underneath. But I put that out of my mind.

"Hey," I called out to Sara, "I'd like a vodka martini, please."

Sara looked over and saw me, and her jaw dropped for a second in spite of herself. But she quickly composed herself and tried to pretend as if she hadn't noticed me. But there were no customers around me who needed drinks - it was Wednesday night, not the craziest of the week - and she was forced to acknowledge my existenc as I repeated my request again.

"Most obliged," I said, trying to mimic a slight British accent, as I took the drink. I guessed that Sara wanted badly to say something nasty to me, but she and I both knew that that would make it far more satisfying for me when we were back home and she was giving me a massage in the buff. Instead she kept up the submissive facade, smiling sweetly at me and nodding her head, then left to serve other customers.

I smirked. Score one for me, I thought.

I watched Sara at the bar for the next half hour, sipping my drink slowly and ordering another one, making sure she was the one who brought it to me. But I felt a sudden twinge of surprise - and embarrassment - when I noticed that one of the barbacks was none other than Caroline, one of the girls who had been witness to the final night of my own humiliation. The girl, in fact, who had given me a fairly uncomforable knock to the sensitive parts with her wrist, and had threatened to do far worse. But then I recalled what had happened later that night - when Sara, in a rare show of friendliness and sympathy, had told me that Caroline had thought I was hot. She herself was not the hottest girl in the world (though not ugly by any means), but I had felt a much-needed surge of pride at the compliment.

As I watched her, I noticed that she and Sara ddn't really get along. One time Sara handed her a glass and turned away without saying anything, and Caroline stared a her back a moment. Another time, Caroline called her from the back, and Sara didn't answer until she called a second time.

Interesting, I thought.

Then I felt a slap on my shoulder, and I turned around to see my buddy Greg standing there - he who had helped me win my glorious victory over Sara in our slavery-betting war. I grinned at him and we slapped hands.

"How's it going, my man?" he asked, sitting down next to me and ordering a drink from Sara as she passed. "Like what we've done with the place?"

"Oh yeah," I said, "your company owns this bar now! I almost forgot."

"Yeah, isn't it sweet?" he asked. "This place is gonna get more and more popular. We oughtta go here more often."

Sara handed him his drink and walked away wordlessly. Greg looked after her, checking her out and shaking his head slightly.

"Damn," he said. "Is that your roommate?"

"Yeah," I said, drinking to cover the fact that for some reason I couldn't bring myself to smile. "Pretty hot, right?"

"God damn, you are one lucky motherfucker," Greg said, grinning and shaking his head in appreciation. "Well why don't you invite me and the peeps over for a drink sometime?"

"Sure," I said, "Yeah, let's do that sometime."

Now I was sure of it. I didn't want Greg lounging on my couch, eyeballing Sara's naked body as she bent over to hand him a drink. I didn't want to see him slap her ass and watch her thank him for it. I wanted to get Sara back for everything she had done to me, but I didn't want to do it that way. Greg was my boy, but somehow I wanted to be the only man to see Sara in her humiliating state.

We talked for a while and checked out other girls in the bar, and then Greg had to go. We slapped hands again and promised to go out and take Sara with us. After he left, I sat there for a while longer, drinking my fourth drink and starting to feel a bit reckless.

Then I saw Caroline and Sara get in a little tiff. It was Caroline's quitting time, and Sara was demanding that she do just one more thing before she leave. I didn't catch all of the exchange, but it seemed there was no love lost etween these two.

Caroline came out of the back and was about to walk out. But as she passed by I caught her arm, and she turned around and noticed me for the first time. She gave a little start of surprise.

"Hey, Caroline," I said, flashing my best smile at her. "Wanna sit down and have a drink before you go?"

"Sure," she blurted.

We went and sat in a booth, away from the bar island. A waitress came by and brought a drink for Caroline, and we sat and talked.

"So," she said, "Do you still walk around the house in the buff?"

"Not exactly," I said, smiling. "You still a ballbuster?"

She laughed, a little nevously. I hadn't noticed it the first time - I had been a bit preoccupied - but it was obvious now that Caroline was attracted to me, and too awkward to know how to show it.

"So," I asked, glancing at Sara behind the bar. "You and Sara going out a lot these days?"

"Not really," Caroline snorted, giving a sour look, and took a swig of her drink.

"I thought you guys made a good team," I said. "You sure were more than I could handle."

She snorted again. "Yeah, well, ask Sara. She's usually too busy getting attention from the boys to hang out with us anymore."