DAY THREE HUNDRED FIFTEEN
Epilogue
I enter the conference room disheveled, my arms loaded with paperwork, files, and a laptop. My necktie is askew. My glasses have slid too far down my nose, and I don't have a free hand to push them back up again.
Several of the HomeNet division heads have already taken their places around the table. They are cool, elegant men and women with styled hair, dressed in impeccably tailored business outfits. Among these people, I stick out like a junkyard mutt at a dog show. My suit is off the rack, my tie is tacky, and though my long blond hair is tied into a ponytail that cascades down my back, there are inevitably wisps that escape and flutter into my face.
To see me, you'd think I don't belong here, and you'd be right. I'm no executive. I'm merely Mr. Warmsley's personal assistant. I attend his meetings, but I don't sit at the conference table. I take my seat at a small desk in the back of the room, where my responsibility is limited to keeping my mouth shut and recording the minutes of the meeting. I also carry some crucial documents, ready to distribute around the table at Mr. Warmsley's request.
I hate wearing clothes, and I hate wearing a suit and tie worse than anything, but Master orders me to dress this way at the office. Master selected these pretend clothes for me, with an eye toward obscuring the true nature of our relationship. I even have a pretend name to go with them: Steven Samuelson. Master calls me "Steve" at work, and so does everyone else around here.
Master gave me the name. He says the initials S.S. secretly stand for "sailboat slave."
I'm okay with that.
Master put me on the company payroll, although my pay actually goes straight into Master's bank account, because slaves can't own money. The fruits of my labor belong to my Master. Master says that if Master paid me, then I wouldn't be his slave, I'd be his whore. He says I wouldn't like that. I think he's right.
Master is right about everything.
I carry a wallet in my jacket. Inside is a driver's license, a HomeNet employee ID card, a Social Security card, health insurance card, and a couple of credit cards from different banks, all in the name of Steven Samuelson. I also carry about $100 in cash.
I need the employee ID card to access the building. I never touch the rest of that stuff; it belongs to Master. I only carry it to maintain the illusion.
The other division heads arrive one by one. Master is the last to enter the room. The others greet him warmly; he greets them in return, each by name. In several cases, he asks after husbands, wives, or children. He does not look at me.
The meeting begins. Master reviews a few points from the last meeting, while I open my laptop and begin typing notes. The keyboard is very quiet; they quickly forget I'm here.
Master goes around the table, asking each of them for an update. Iris Dawkins, head of the Consumer Electronics division, reports on the latest phone project. She notes some obstacles, but concludes on a positive note. Chris Tang, who leads Home Networking, reports rising sales and profits for the new generation of smart appliances. Frank Haviland, of the European branch, mentions some EU regulatory issues, but assures Master they only need a little more time; meanwhile, he boasts, UK market penetration is increasing rapidly.
Mitch Cawley speaks about sales out of the Hong Kong subsidiary. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat as he comes to the topic of last quarter's figures. CTO Mike Probert reports on upgrades to the server farm and improved failover performance. Next CFO Anthony Peyton-Farrow discusses tax strategy for the coming fiscal year, while Probert and Haviland exchange glances. Haviland leans back in his chair and spreads his legs toward Probert. I watch them intently.
A minute later, I jerk upright and gasp quietly as the electric vibrator Master put inside my asshole comes to life. He keeps the small remote that activates it in his pants pocket. It amuses him to occasionally reach into his pocket and surprise me. When I look toward him, he does not look at me, but his lip curls into a faint hint of a smile.
The meeting breaks up about ten minutes later, but the vibrator keeps going, which is Master's signal that he wants me to meet with him in his office. I am the last to leave the conference room, only after I load myself up with stacks of reports, which I take to my own small cubicle before reporting to Master. Master sits behind his big desk, while I sit at the smaller chair across the room which is reserved for me. As I sit, the vibrator goes quiet, which means I am to wait while Master makes phone calls.
The calls take the rest of the afternoon. I wait patiently, passing the time by reminding myself that Master's schedule is clear this evening, which means I can look forward to us going home together. At 5:00, and with Master still on the phone, I leave his office and head for the limo waiting for us outside the main entrance. A number of people, from executives to receptionists and everyone between, wish me good evening as I pass. Every time, I smile and say something pleasant and forgettable in return. I've been here long enough that everyone takes my presence for granted. I'm Steve, the CEO's personal assistant. Nothing to see here.
I climb into the back of the limo and wait. The slave waits for Master; Master never waits for the slave.
It is nearly six before Master arrives. He climbs into the limo, takes a seat next to me, and the chauffeur, Khalil, takes us home. Along the way, Master makes small talk with Khalil, asking him about his wife and his two daughters. Kahlil answers in his rich baritone voice, filling Master in on his wife's new job and their daughters' travels over spring break. He laughs and asks Master when Master is going to have children. Master brushes aside the question with a chuckle.
Khalil asks me if there's anyone special in my life. I mutter something about being too busy to get into a relationship. Master gives me a quick shot with the vibrator, to let me know he approves of how I handled the question.
It is after seven before Khalil lets us off at the lake house, which is where we stay on weeknights. Master heads for the den, where he will pour himself a bourbon and read the news on his tablet. I climb the stairs to "my" room. It's not really my room, but it's where Master keeps my clothes, and where we pretend I sleep when we show the house to anyone.
Master likes everything to be discreet. I just like to be naked. I strip off the suit and tie as fast as I can get out of them. The clothes go into a hamper, where the staff will send them out to be cleaned and pressed. Master keeps a full staff at this house, including a cook, but insures everyone has left for the evening before we arrive.
With the clothes gone, I feel a deep sense of relief. My skin can breathe again. I climb into the bed and out again, so tomorrow it will look as if I slept there. I head downstairs to the den, where I take my place just inside the door, behind Master's chair, where I am to stand and wait until he signals he's ready for me.
About twenty minutes pass before Master's left arm extends casually to one side, elbow resting on the arm of his easy chair, hand in the air, palm up. He does not look up from his tablet.
That's my signal. I move closer, until I can maneuver my dick into Master's outstretched hand. His fingers encircle it and massage it gently. When it is erect, he asks me, still without looking at me, "What did you think of today's meeting?"
"Cawley is lying to you," I say.
Now he looks up at me. He stops stroking. "Why do you say that?"
