Orlando worked out well for me job wise. I got the usual resistance from a couple of the managers to having a new female boss - especially one who could have passed for a sixteen year old schoolgirl. I worked hard to gain everyone's trust and confidence; they came around slowly.
I had a nice bit of savings by now. I put some of it on a down payment and bought a nice house in a good neighborhood, not too big, not too ostentatious. I traded in my Honda for a new Mercedes.
Outside of work I didn't have much of a social life. No time! I was putting in twelve hours a day, seven days a week minimum - not because I had to, because my job was fun. I was having fun!
The women I worked with were mostly secretaries, a few programmers; only one other female manager. They were friendly but more or less avoided me. Afraid of the girl executive. Nobody tried to get too close to me.
Nobody but Maria that is - but more about Maria later.
Days turned into weeks and weeks into months. Things were going well, productivity was up, the VPs and CEO were pleased. We decided to upgrade servers. Called for proposals; selected the five best, requested formal presentations.
And so one day I found myself in the presentation room with all five managers and a few of the technical staff. We were doing two a day presentations; a vendor team would come in in the morning, give their presentation, then another in the afternoon. Second day, fourth team.
They marched into the room, five men and one woman, dressed in business suits. One of the managers introduced everyone.
One of the men was a tall, handsome guy in a dark grey suit named George Smith.
I still wore my hair long but usually kept it in a bun as I had today. George squinted at me; I knew he was thinking he recognized me, but wasn't quite certain. At the dungeon I used the name Yvonne (in honor of Yvonne DeCarlo, the witch mother in the old Addams Family TV show); I was introduced as Staci. I wore blue contacts at the dungeon to cover my light brown eyes.
Although I doubted George ever looked at anything other than my feet or my tits.
Anyway, I could tell he didn't want to risk asking, how could the little strumpet from Atlanta be the IT director of this company? No way, he was probably thinking.
They gave a good but not outstanding presentation. We'd already more or less decided on the second company anyway. After the presentation they invited us all out to dinner (this was customary). I accepted as did a couple of the managers. We arranged to meet later that evening at a local restaurant.
All through dinner I saw the look of confusion on George's face. I sounded the same but that didn't mean anything; I had very little accent or other distinguishing verbal features. I was dressed in a conservative grey skirt, white shirt, and grey jacket with taupe low heel pumps. I noticed George sneaking glances at my shoes from time to time; I knew he noticed the low heels.
Yvonne had always worn six inch spike heels.
The conversation continued pleasantly. I found out George was from the Orlando area, had lived here the last ten years. He'd been engaged but broke it off a few months back. He didn't say why; nobody asked. The other guys and the woman (her name was Grace) had similar stories.
I told them I was from Texas (true) and had been in Orlando for about six months (also true). I didn't mention Atlanta or ever living elsewhere.
After dinner we had a few drinks; then I begged off, using the excuse that I had to get up early for work. I excused myself, walked out and handed my keys to the valet, and got in my Mercedes.
I drove around the block, stopped down the street from the restaurant and parked. George and two other men came out after about twenty minutes, got their car, and left. I was pleased to note that George was driving.
I followed them at a respectful distance. George dropped the others off one at a time then drove on to an apartment complex. He pulled into the parking lot; I turned in behind him. As he parked and got out of his car I pulled up beside him.
"Get in." I commanded.
His eyes got wide as saucers. "Y-yvonne?" he stammered. I didn't answer, just pointed to the passenger door. Finally able to move, he pulled the handle, got in.
He started to say something but I cut him off. "Shut up, George."
I drove a couple of blocks, then pulled over. Reaching in my purse I pulled out a silk scarf. He drew back a bit but yielded as I tied the scarf around his eyes. I didn't want him to see where we were going.
I drove on without another word, to my house. Not directly there; it was only about a half mile from his apartment. I drove around a bit first with the silent, blindfolded man in the seat next to me. Finally I turned in to my street, pulled into the drive. Opened the garage door with the remote, pulled in. Cut the engine, closed the door with the remote.
"Ok, George," I told him, "You can take the blindfold off now."
He pulled the scarf off his head. "Where are we?" he asked.
"Somewhere you won't be able to find," I answered. "Scared?"
"N-no..."
"Liar!" I chuckled. "No matter. Come with me."
He followed me to the living room. I sat on one end of the couch in the center of the room; I indicated George should sit on the other end.
"George, darling," I said, "I know you recognized me - or thought you did, anyway. I know it'll be a matter of time before you check me out, find out I moved here from Atlanta."
George started to protest, but I cut him off. "Shut up, George!" I commanded. "Then next thing, people will start wondering and at best it'll cause me a lot of trouble and at worst I might lose my job. So I decided to bring you here to head things off."
He looked puzzled. "Let me explain," I went on. "As of right now you will forget Yvonne, forget you ever knew anyone with that name and will never ever try to bother me in any way. Because if you do I'll go to the police, claim you've been following and harassing me, that you've been threatening me and I'm scared. Who do you think they'll believe, George?"
I saw comprehension in his eyes. "You have no proof that I was ever someone called Yvonne, or that I worked in a dungeon. I on the other hand have excellent records of my past employment and education so if you don't want to get locked up as a perv you'll do as I say and not bother me."
George was looking down, at my feet. Damn, I thought, foot perv to the end! I took his face in my right hand, pulled it up and looked directly into his eyes. "Do you understand, George?"
"Yes," he said in a soft, plaintive voice. "Yes, Yvonne...I mean, Staci." He paused one, two, three breaths; then he softly added, "Mistress Staci."
Damn, damn, damn! Damn little perv, why'd he have to be so damn cute, why'd he have to have those soft brown bedroom eyes? Why'd he have to have that flat stomach and those muscled arms and why, oh why was I wondering if his tongue would feel as good on my pussy as it'd felt on my toes all those months ago?
