The final installment of the De la Dia series. Thank you for the positive feedback I have received, that has driven me to actually finish a piece of writing for the first time in a while. This section is my gratitude for the attention, votes, and feedback, as it justifies the rest of the story for you! Enjoy, and please, don't hesitate to let me know what you think!
Chapter 6: Come Sunday
Amy couldn't bring herself to work on the day's journal. Even now, hours after her massage, arousal and excitement held her body in their feverish grip; concentration upon work was the last thing on her mind. Of course she had performed one final test of Sarastra's little command, as soon as she had returned to her quarters, just to make certain that the first time had not been a fluke. She had peeled out of her gym clothes and all but leapt into bed, slipping her finger into a pussy that still steamed from the pretty servant girl's touch. For a half hour she caressed her dripping slit and attacked her aching breasts, to no avail whatsoever. Oh, it felt wonderful, but just as before, her rampant sexual tension had done nothing but build and grow, grow and build until she wanted nothing more than to go outside and viciously fuck the first person she met.
Instead, Amy bided her time. She read through the most vapid and dull magazine she could find, but put it down when a movie advertisement had coaxed her fingertips back down to her clit. She lay stroking that hard nub for fifteen minutes before tearing herself away from it, tears of frustration gleaming in her eyes.
"
What's wrong with me?"
Amy lay there, her hands covering her eyes, chest heaving from the pure sex setting her bloodstream ablaze. Despair threatened to overtake her.
I'm not a lesbian. I'm not even into girls.
But... I just... I want it so bad...I can't help myself, I want them.
So don't be a lesbian. Just 'experiment'.
Amy's eyes snapped open as that thought ran across her inner monologue. Of course! She was at the right age to try new things, and... to be perfectly honest, she knew that all she needed at this point was a damn good excuse. She rose from her bed, suddenly feeling quite a bit better about everything, and went straightway to her closet. Yellow... pink... blue. Blue.
She selected a cornflower yellow string bikini from the racks inside, where little aside from gym and swimwear was kept. Carefully she pulled the bottoms on, cringing in blissful irritation when the thin material nestled in between her engorged labia, and tied the top as well as she could. It was at least a size too small, but Amy knew that going in. Smiling a wicked smile of triumph to herself, she grabbed two towels, admired her camel's toe in the mirror for a moment, and sauntered her way to the pool on the bottom level. She had only to wait.
* * *
Amy gathered her towels at the ten o' clock hour, wrapping them around herself to conceal the string bikini she had chosen to wear. Sighing quietly at her foolishness, she stormed back to her room to perform her journal entry for the day and get to bed.
Sunday was nowhere to be found. Whether she had second thoughts, or had just been stringing her along, Amy could not tell. Her frustration prevented her from realizing just how badly her feelings had been hurt by this indiscretion, but more so, prevented her from understanding how heightened were her senses of betrayal because of it. It hurt, and she could not understand why.
The journal entry that night seemed to take forever. No matter how she tried to concentrate, Amy simply could not hold her thoughts together. She kept thinking of the servant girl, their embrace at the end of that... enlightening massage. Their promise to meet. And every thought simply drew more anger from within the heart of the coed.
The next morning saw Amy awakening in pain. The fitful, restless night had left her with a wicked crick in her neck, while her prolonged sexual frustration had begun to cause back aches with greater and greater frequency. She could not wait to confront Sunday at her door, and find out just what the hell had kept her from coming to the pool and mercifully relieving Amy of this nightmare.
But Sunday never came. Upon leaving her room Amy discovered a simple basket with the day's clothes folded inside. Sunday, it seemed, was indisposed, and though she knew better, Amy hated her for that.
The day went by slowly, every second made excruciating by the pain in Amy's spine. After her physical she decided to check by the parlor and see if the servant girl had returned, but found to her great irritation that all of the lights were out, and the doors locked. Her second choice of the steam room only seemed to make her feel worse, and, by the time she sank down before her borrowed computer to write up her journal entry, Amy was positively miserable.
The next day brought more of the same. By supper, Amy's frustration with Sunday had begun to transform into concern, and then flat out anxiety. Mia seemed to know nothing about the servant girl's disappearance, and neither did the librarian, or the cooks.
Her heart sank when she discovered that no one knew anything about it. The memory of her naked body pressing against Sunday rang fresh in her mind, mixing now with her angst to draw tears from her eyes. She didn't know why, but... when the full, wonderful feeling of the hug dissipated into the emptiness of not knowing, she could not stop herself from weeping.
"Amy?" A concerned male voice floated up from the stairwell and through her open door that night, drawn by the sound of sobs from within her quarters. Donovan appeared in her doorway, his handsome face drawn up in concern for her, and his eyes traveled along Amy's disheveled clothes and tear-streaked face.
"What happened, Amy? I could hear you all the way downstairs," asked the personnel manager as he sat upon the vacant computer chair. Amy favored him with a melancholy look.
"Nothing," she lied. "Well... Donovan, I'm having... I mean, I'm just... confused. I felt... I just..."
"Amy," Donovan interrupted sternly, "calm down, and talk to me. If you're unhappy, I need to know about it. Personnel manager, remember? I keep the talent happy." He smiled, but her spirits failed to lift. "Talk to me, Amy. Whatever it is, it won't leave this room."
Amy gulped deep breaths of air, misty eyes fixed upon the ceiling.
"Donovan, I saw Sunday with you a few days ago. She was... going down on you. I watched, I couldn't help myself."
Donovan took this surprisingly well, nodding grimly.
"Yeah. Sunday and I do favors for each other sometimes. It's nothing to cry about, though..."
"No, Donovan, it isn't that. It really worried me, because I liked what I saw. But I'm uptight. I went to Sarastra and tried to find a way to keep from seeing things like that, I mean..." Amy paused, sniffling, "... if it was going to keep happening. But... she said all these creepy things to me, and then she... touched me. I couldn't tell her to stop, it... it felt so good... but she didn't finish. And the next day, I couldn't..."
"Couldn't what?"
Amy sighed. She might as well tell him everything. After all, Donovan Simms had been Sarastra's associate for some time. Perhaps he held the answers she craved so badly.
"Donovan, I couldn't orgasm. She told me that I couldn't, and then, I just... I couldn't. I tried, for hours, I tried, but I just couldn't do it. I kept thinking about Sunday with you, and how great she looked, and... then I went for my massage, and she... she got me so hot, just talking, but I wasn't ready. I'm straight, at least I think I am... but I wanted her so much... and we hugged, and she held me..."
Donovan nodded. "And now she's gone."
Amy's head snapped up from her pillow. "What do you mean? Where did she go, Donovan, tell me!"
"We saw her touching you in the massage parlor, even though you didn't want it. Cameras everywhere, remember? Lady de la Dia has always held a strict policy against forcing someone into sexual encounters, Amy." The personnel manager sighed softly, regret thick in his voice. "She's being punished as we speak. Then, she'll be reassigned away from you."
Amy sat bolt upright. "No! I don't want that. Donovan, I..."
"Listen Amy. Sarastra De la Dia is a difficult woman, yes, but there is far more to her that you aren't ready to know yet. I was very fond of Sunday, too, but I know better than to worry about it. If I were you," he stood, "I would just forget about her." From his pocket, Donovan produced a small piece of paper and a black pen. He scribbled something down on the paper and left it there, right next to Amy's computer. "Forget her." With that, he walked right out of her room and disappeared down the hallway, leaving Amy speechless at the harsh words he had just spoken.
"I think I'm in love with her..." she had been about to say. How could she have meant something like that? Amy slid from her bead, her heart still pounding. Love. With a woman... and so quickly! Doubt sprang forth almost instantly, burying the passion of the admission with logic, but the word danced at the tip of her tongue anyway. She had little experience with that word, but... there it was. With a woman... and now, she was gone.
"I'm so sorry, Sunday," Amy whimpered, looking up to the ceiling as if in prayer for a moment. With a concentrated effort she took up the piece of paper Donovan had left, and read over it. Written in flowing red script at the top, the note read:
Donovan,
Escort Tessa to the holding cells behind the massage parlor. She must not see the light of day for at least one week, until her tune has changed. I will start processing her transfer orders. Due to her years of faithful service and the light nature of her crime, she will not be expelled. Tell no one where she is. Destroy this note as soon as you receive it.
Amy could not believe her eyes. She read on, though, noting that the scrawl at the bottom of the note was in black, the ink fresh.
I can't say out loud. Cameras. Tessa Sunday's name. In parlor, move blue painting, comb. 3-12-32 Show Sar. You care, forgive Tessa. Then get her back. Destroy note. Do not proceed if can't handle truth.
How cloak and dagger of him. What had he meant by 'if can't handle truth?' Surely he wasn't suggesting that she couldn't handle her feelings for Sunday... was he? Amy wiped her eyes, sniffled, and promptly ripped up the note and flushed it. She slipped immediately into shoes and all but ran for the massage parlor, a thousand horrible thoughts running through her mind at once. Holding cells? What sort of maniac was this Sarastra anyway? She didn't dare call the police... certainly, if every room had cameras, then the phone lines were almost certainly tapped as well.
Inside the parlor, Amy quietly removed a blue painting of a seascape, discovering, to her great dismay, a heavy combination lock hidden beneath. With careful precision she input the combination Donovan had left, and caught her breath at the soft click of a lock releasing against the far wall.
