Author's Note: So we're back again. I know it's been a while, but finally I've gotten a chance to continue this story. As always, I feel the need to reiterate that the misogynistic views depicted in this story are terrible, but they are a necessary evil for the story I wish to tell.
As the author Daniel Handler once said, "I am at a loss for how to write villains who do not do villainous things." If you can't handle that, perhaps this story is not for you.
Anyway, as always, I respond to almost every comment I receive, so feel free to tell me your thoughts.
Enjoy:
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11) The Criminal.
Abigail
"So, you're certain that Agent Evans is not making any real progress?"
I can hear the voice, but I can't see its source. I know whom the words belong to, however. They flow out confidently with a powerful, heavy tone, which exudes a domineering sense of might. Of course they do. It's a male who is speaking. All the fibers of my being tell me that each and every syllable contains power... so much power. The words have authority over me. Every deep, masculine syllable that touches my ears reminds me that the speaker possesses a wellspring of unquestionable strength.
I feel a tremor of awe resonating throughout my being. A part of me finds this authority terrifying, but I work to remind myself that ultimately, it's comforting. I am a willing servant to the voice, and so I am safe from its fury. I find a deep sense of relief in that realization.
By now, I have come to understand that every man has a place over me. Of course, part of my mind has been insisting that for some time now, but Gregory, my former-Dearest, had ingrained in me the idea that he was the one that I should serve above all. The past few weeks have helped me to fully comprehend that it wasn't just him that I needed to cower beneath. I am the ground for the heel of every man. Even this one.
This male, Bogart, Gregory... every single man is my ruler, and I am merely a worthless, mousey underling. Even Thomas Evans... that bastard who wants to give all women back their rights and take away the constant pleasure that our servitude affords us... even he holds a place above me. He rejected my attempts to service him; of course, that was his prerogative as one of my masters. His decision to spurn my advances wounded me to my soul, but it was a perfect chance to show me how lowly and pathetic I am.
The voice speaks again, resonating with a dominant magnetism. "I understand that he seems to be struggling, but I'm worried that he may hit upon something useful to his goals. We can't risk Thomas making some seemingly innocuous discovery and sharing it with others. Any tiny chink in the payload is a threat to our beautiful status quo. You don't think that he could possibly be on the verge of a breakthrough?"
Honestly, I would never in my life have expected to hear this particular man in my current location. At the moment, I'm in Bogart's office. A field office of the FBI is not a place where one expects to hear such a sinister, evil person.
It isn't my place to judge, obviously. With all of my proper training, I am aware that I can never question him or the validity of his words, and yet I still know that he is a wicked, heinous being. The fact that he is one of my masters changes nothing. In a world where the weaker sex has been fully and irrevocably subjugated, I still believe that there is an objective morality that exists. I mean, it isn't my place to
care
, and I'm powerless to do anything about it, obviously; just the same, I am still capable of knowing these things. No man has yet told me to stop, so I continue to ponder them.
It goes without saying that I am merely a tool, to be used at the behest of a man. Men are responsible for both their actions and the actions of their possessions. And as a possession, I am free from responsibility and guilt. This is a good thing, honestly. Because if I am ordered to do something terrible, of course I will do it, and I will probably revel in it. It feels incredible to be used. That's just the way of the world now. I don't need to feel any sense of shame for my actions, because they were not based on my own decisions.
I imagine a hammer, somehow granted sentience by a trickster god. If the hammer was used to build a beautiful home, could it somehow claim credit for the construction of the house? Not really. It was only a single implement utilized by the craftsman to accomplish the task. On the other hand, if the hammer were used to cave in the skull of another man or a child, could the hammer be held responsible? No. It would only be the murderer who could be blamed.
The same applies to me. If I am commanded to obey an evil request, I am not guilty. Such burdens are no longer mine to endure. I must simply accomplish my tasks as they are given to me and enjoy the delectable reward. What a blissful place in the world that I've been allowed to hold. I simply serve my masters and soak in all of the cerebral rapture as it floods in.
Somewhere, from the deepest cavern of my brain, a tiny, hideous thought flairs.
'I am responsible for my actions. I am to blame for my own wickedness; I cannot dodge accountability for any of my misdeeds.'
I shake my head forcefully, trying to banish such unfathomable thoughts from my mind. 'I cannot be guilty if I merely serve! I
cannot
be guilty, if I merely serve!' I continue repeating these thoughts within my mind, and they work their way out in a gentle hum. I silence the sounds immediately, however. Women should never speak without permission.
My eyes close, and I stifle a contented sigh, as these wise thoughts send a pleasant, soothing sensation rippling throughout my body. I grin slightly. It is a bit difficult to form a true smile, with my mouth spread as it is. Dearest is currently stretching my lips uncomfortably far apart, but that's a good thing. Ultimately, I know that any discomfort I experience is worth it, when you consider how nice it must feel for Dearest. While not particularly rigid at the moment, I do continue to gently suckle... I never know when Dearest might stiffen up a bit, and I can put my skills to work, granting yet another climax and receiving the delicious reward that comes with such a doting job well done.
"Dearest" isn't my name for Bogart, incidentally. Surprisingly, he has not requested any special name. No, "Dearest" is my name for Bogart's cock... it's the name he demands I use. So I continue to work, making sure that Dearest receives all the tender, wet stimulation that it deserves. The base of the shaft is unbelievably hairy. When his cock is flaccid, it sits so close to his bushy sack that I'm reminded of the sensation of kissing a shaggy dog. I doubt that he's ever groomed in his life, and his natural musk is almost overwhelming.
Of course, there is a deep and insistent part of my mind that reminds me that all of these "short-comings" only improve the quality of my servitude. If Bogart were more attractive, or if he groomed, or if his body odor was more pleasant, then it might seem like I was doing all of this down here for my own sexual gratification. And that would be
all
wrong. A subservient woman doesn't pleasure a man for selfish reasons... she does it because it's right and proper. The fact that it is ultimately the hottest, most disgustingly erotic experience that she's capable of participating in... that is merely coincidental.
Reassuring endorphins flood outward from my properly programmed mind. I don't fully understand how I know that this is happening, but I do, and I revel in it. I'm sure that I was aware at some point, long ago, but such concepts baffle me now. Why should I focus on them? They're irrelevant to mine or Dearest's pleasure. The voices continue over the sounds of my soft ministrations, and a lazy part of my mind tunes in.
I can sense Bogart shaking his head. "No, Agent Evans has almost reached a standstill. Multiple factors have worked to hamper his efforts. He finally gave in and collared his wife, and he also collared another beautiful, young slut... he's probably fucking that bitch's brains out as we speak."
"Is that so?"
"Yes," Bogart chuckles, although I sense something that resembles envy in the sound. "I can't imagine Thomas trying to end the payload now; it would mean he'd have to give up that hot piece of ass. Of course, he claims that he hasn't touched her, but I think we all know that's bullshit. Tom's been struggling with tons of subtle obstacles, almost all of which were placed in his way by me." Bogart chortles again, and the prideful satisfaction is obvious in his voice.
"I see. How interesting that you take the majority of the credit for his failure," the unseen speaker muses, and my brain conjures up the image of its owner. Nicholas Gambini; as the name touches my consciousness, I feel a tremor of awe and fear within my spine.
His face materializes within my mind automatically. I can see his square and incredibly masculine jawline. He has a darkly handsome visage, edged by a full head of pitch black hair. His deep, steely eyes have an uncomfortable way of watching others. I have only seen him once, years ago, at an arraignment during which he successfully dodged prosecution. I think... it can be so hard to remember such silly things now. I certainly doubt he remembers me, but I could never forget a face as striking as his.
I know that Gambini is many things to me. He is a master, ruler, and an irrefutable authority figure. He is many other things as well. Criminal mastermind, head of an organized crime family, and perhaps a murderer too... if the Bureau's intel is correct. None of that affects me directly, though. Such matters are far above my station, but that doesn't mean I can't understand them in a general, passive way.
Bogart lets out a huff that I can feel inside my mouth. "I
can
take credit for his failures, because I have been orchestrating them from the start. I have placed other like-minded parties in his way, which slow him down more than I could alone. I've been able to ensure that every other agent on the case shares our opinions on the payload, and I've been slowly increasing Evan's workload with other irrelevant tasks. Lastly, I have an ace in the hole, you might say... an extra bit of insurance that allows me to get daily, precise reports about his progress. Or lack thereof. Much more information than anyone else would get by reading the official reports that Evans releases."
