The Director's Itten

A lithe young figure stood at the edge of the bridge, staring out at the river below, and the beckoning dark embrace of the water, and of death. The bridge lights reflected off the water, but other than that and the headlights of the occasional car, it was dark. It was 4 a.m.

Catherine Vincent, known as Cat to her friends and fellow club-goers, was dressed in black for the occasion. She wore a little black dress, black stockings, and black pumps. Her long brunette hair hung in waves to her shoulders. She was twenty-seven years old.

She had come east from Iowa to get a chance in the theater, but she'd had little luck landing roles that would pay the rent. Recently, she had broken up with her boyfriend. She didn't know anyone else in the city well. He hadn't been any good for her, but he'd been someone to do something for, and that had helped her feel her lack of success less keenly. Now she felt she had nothing. She didn't want to return to Iowa a failure and face a chorus of "I told you so."

She dropper her purse to the ground. Her ID was inside; she figured that would help the police identify the body.

She climbed the fence. She was agile, and though her clothes were not made for this kind of adventure, she didn't care if they got ripped. It would all be the same to her when they fished her out of the water. All a nothingness.

Cars sped by occasionally as she made the ascent, illuminating her in the glare of their headlights. Perhaps they didn't notice her or failed to comprehend what they were seeing, but their passage seemed to agree with her perception that the city was cold and uncaring.

She reached the top. She paused a few seconds, not to reconsider, but because she felt that the moment between life and death merited a little solemnity. Then she pushed off.

Strong hands, covered with thin leather gloves, grabbed her and pulled her back. She fought, using all the advantage of height. The figure below her was also dressed in black -- T-shirt, jeans, and a mask that covered his face. Despite her better position, the stranger was too strong. He set her down again on the bikeway beside the road.

A sleek black car was parked there, hazards flashing.

He opened the passenger door, pushed her inside, and closed the door on her. She tried to open it, but it didn't unlock. The man stepped into the road and moved around the car to slip into the driver's side door.

He had her purse in hand and fished out her wallet. He looked at her driver's license, dropped the wallet into the purse, and handed the purse to her.

In moments the car was blazing forward.

"Why?" the man asked.

"Why what?" She was annoyed, but interested in the mystery of the man. She looked at him in profile. The mask covered his features, except for his steel gray eyes, which reflected the streetlights.

"Why choose death?"

"My boyfriend left me," she said. It was an explanation that she thought would satisfy his curiosity and stop further questions.

"There is more," he said.

"I am all alone in New York."

"There is still more," he said, maddeningly.

"I can't get a role in a play."

"More," he said.

"My life has no meaning," she said, daring him to debate it.

"Do you want there to be meaning?"

That wasn't how this argument went. "I suppose," she said. "Who doesn't?"

"If there was, would you want to live?"

"I suppose," she said.

"I can provide you with meaning."

She snorted. "I doubt it."

"Suppose for a moment that I could, whatever sort of meaning that was. Would you want it?"

"Yes."

"What would you do, for meaning?"

"Anything, I suppose."

He smiled slightly.

"That's exactly what will be asked of you, Catherine Vincent. Anything."

It took her a moment to remember he had her ID, and had read her name. "Cat, to my friends," she said.

"I prefer Catherine," he said, maddeningly.

She refused to give up. "Why?" she asked, deliberately ambiguous.

"Why what?" he replied, as she had before, but with curiosity rather than annoyance.

"Why choose life?" she asked, smirking at the clever way she had reversed the flow of argument on him. "Why did you rescue me?"

He didn't answer either of her questions. He slowed the car down, dimmed his lights, and turned into a park. It was closed at dark, but there was no chain across the parking lot.

She grabbed the car door, suddenly afraid. She still couldn't get out. "You motherfucker," she said. "You're going to rape me."

"No."

"Why can't I get out?"

"Child safety locks. To stop you from hurling yourself into traffic." He flipped a switch on his door, and the lock popped open on her side with an audible click. "Stay, if you're really willing to exchange anything for meaning and purpose. Leave, if you were bluffing."

She knew she should run, but she had been about to kill herself. Given that, she was brave enough to deal with whatever might transpire. "I doubt you can give me that, but if you do, I will do whatever you ask," she said.

"That is the bargain. I give you meaning and purpose, and you give me unquestioned obedience." He kept his profile to her, not facing her. "We have a deal, Catherine Vincent?"

"If you can keep your side, I will keep mine," she agreed.

He pulled off a glove and turned to her. "Close your eyes, Catherine."

She closed them, but not before she saw that his fingers were long, like a pianist's. He covered her eyes with his hand.

"You are mine, Catherine."

He kissed her. He must have taken the mask off. Her eyes opened, but the hand blocked her view. She kissed back, hungrily. He was a good kisser. He knew just how to use his tongue, without trying to go to deep.

He pulled back, still covering her eyes with his hand.

"Your purpose is obedience. Your meaning is in doing as I say and serving my will."

It seemed so simple. She had sought meaning in service before, in trying to make her boyfriend happy. But he hadn't been worthy. This man, she felt confident, was. "Yes." She wanted to know what he looked like. Clearly he didn't want that. She felt she should try anyway, but something held her back.

"The bargain is sealed. I have delivered," he said. She heard cloth rustling.

"Yes. You have." She squirmed. For the first time in days, she felt alive. And with that feeling came a tingling between her legs.

He took his hand away. The mask was back, hiding his face. His body, although clearly athletic, was concealed to her. But the power he radiated -- the power he had so easily assumed with her -- was captivating.

He turned away again. He put his glove back on and started the car.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"To your new home."

"I don't get a say in that, do I?"

"No." He turned the lights on as they left the park and turned back onto the road.

"What is your name?"

"I have many names. You may call me simply the Director."

The word made her squirm, the warm feeling in her body increasing. Still, she couldn't use it yet. "That's a little pretentious, don't you think?

"Not in my case."

"What are you known as to other people? The people who don't call you the Director. Are there others who call you that?"

"You are the first."

"But not the last?"

"Not if there are people who need me, as you do."

He drove up to an apartment building with an underground lot. At the entrance, he pushed a card in the slot, and the gate raised to let him through. He parked in one of the spots, marked 437. Then he ushered her into the building, where the card was again required, and pushed the button on the elevator for the fourth floor.

The card key unlocked room 437.

He covered the switch with a gloved hand rather than turning on the light. By the illumination of the hall she could see a leather couch and a large television. There was a closed silver laptop on a reflective table. He tossed the key onto the table. It skidded to rest against the laptop.

The place didn't look lived in. "This is your place?" she asked.

He closed the door behind him, and the place was dark again. "It's yours, now. As far as the lease says, it belongs to someone named Jane Carson. But of course, since it belongs to you, and you belong to me, it, too, is mine."

I belong to you. The thought sent a thrill down her spine. "Who is Jane Carson?"

"A fiction. A placeholder, and nothing more. Take off your clothes."

She hesitated. The glimpse she had seen was that of luxury. She had always affected an air of anti-materialism, but she had to admit that she wanted to recline on that couch. But it all seemed so incredible, and besides, the man was a stranger. She hadn't even seen his face. "What if I don't?" she asked.

"Then you will defy your new purpose, and you will not get the peace you seek. And you will not get to provide me pleasure."

Any other man would have offered to please her. He was arrogant. Or confident. And he knew she wanted -- no, needed -- direction. His direction, she felt now. The name he gave her made a certain amount of sense. As her eyes adjusted she realized there was a little light in the room, coming from lights outside, filtered through imperfect venetian blinds. It didn't help her see him -- he was still just a silhouette, but she would be backlit for him.

She was suddenly consumed with a desire for him to see her naked. She wanted his gaze to feast on her body. She wanted to give him pleasure. She unzipped her dress and pulled it off over her head. Then she pulled down her panties. Should she take off her stockings, too?

"On your knees," he said.

That answered that. Stockings on. She knelt, and her knees felt plush carpet. How considerate. Right then she would have knelt on a stone floor for him, and even though she didn't know why, she knew it felt right.

She felt something warm and fleshy against her lips. A cock. His cock. Her mouth opened for it, taking it in. It tasted recognizably like other cocks she'd sucked on, but it was somehow better in a way that went behind taste and smell, although he smelled as clean as if he'd just gotten out of a shower. She slid her lips down over it, swishing her tongue against the underside.

"My kiss made it difficult to resist me. It is why I wear a mask, and gloves. Even a touch, or a shared breath, is enough to weaken a person's will -- their ability to oppose me. But you consented."

She listened. It was fantastical, and yet she could almost believe it. But then, she'd been about to lose everything, and she owed him her gratitude. She surrendered to him because she had nothing less to lose. Surely that was a more reasonable explanation.

"When I cum in your mouth," he said, "It will be beyond difficult, Catherine. It will be impossible for you to refuse my will."

It sounded like a warning, but it to Catherine it beckoned like a promise. His will was a purpose. His will was what she craved. The thought passed through her mind that anyone's will would have done, that it was simply the need to matter to another human being, but she rejected it. She didn't even need to matter to him. She simply needed to submit. Not to anything, not to anyone, but him. To that kiss. To his cock in her mouth.

She wrapped her hand around it and started stroking him in rhythm with the bobbing of her head. She normally liked to tease. To lick the tip, to suck the balls into her mouth. To feel the power of making a man wait. But she didn't want to wait for what he promised. She didn't want to be able to refuse his will. Serving his will was her meaning. Obedience to him was her purpose.

Obedience to her Master. Her Director.

The Director.

She wondered if he'd tell her to slow down, but he didn't. His ungloved hands rested on her hair. She looked up and saw something of a face although the light was too dim to really see him. Could he see her eyes, looking up at him adoringly? She didn't know. She thought he'd like that, though, so she looked upward, even though it was difficult while she was working his cock.

His cock filled her wet mouth. She took it deep enough to push against the back of her throat. She gripped it with her lips. She imagined what his cum would taste like. She wanted it. She wanted to be his, totally, completely.

She felt his cock swell, and she knew he was close. Again, she had the instinct to tease. She could not see any sign from him, just the sound of his breathing. His hands were on her head. He could control her if he chose. He was strong, and she couldn't resist him if he forced her onto his cock or grabbed her hair and pulled her back. If he wanted to, she wanted him to.

His hands tightened on her scalp, and she knew she was not meant to move away.

Then he came. Salty and hot, his cum burst forth, coating her tongue and the back of her throat. She swallowed, and still there was more. And more, filling every bit of her mouth that didn't have cock in it. She struggled to swallow it all, but she was determined to take every drop inside her, in the hopes that would make her even more his.

His breathing relaxed. "Come, Catherine," he said.

It doesn't work like that. I need to be touched.

She came. It was, in fact, the best orgasm she'd ever had. It began at her throat and coruscated through her body, enveloping her womb, making her pussy ache and release over and over. As his hands relaxed she fell backward, letting herself be askew on the soft plush carpet, her body shaking and convulsing at his command. Her eyes closed as she focused on the feeling.

"You will always come when I tell you to," he said. "I will call on you again when I have need of you. Until then, learn your surroundings, and enjoy them."

Cloth rustled. She opened her eyes. He was still a dim figure, but she could see that he once again wore his mask and his gloves. The door opened, and she could see the dark silhouette of him by the hall light. Then he slipped away.

She wanted to chase after him, but she was naked, exhausted, and a wet mess besides. She managed to get to her feet and turn on the light.

The place was immaculate. Every piece of furniture looked new. The table had a glass top. The television was an expensive brand.

She explored the place. The bedroom had mirrored closet doors. The closet was empty, and huge -- a walk-in. The oaken chests of drawers in the bedroom were also empty, but inside one of them was a gift card, and a note. "Buy the clothes you need with this," it said. "According to the specifications in the manual." It was signed, simply. "The Director."

The card was for five thousand dollars. She didn't see a manual, and a further search of the bedroom didn't reveal it.

She wandered back out to the living room, and the laptop caught her eye. The leather stuck to her, but she didn't care.

She turned on the laptop. It was brand new, or close. It asked her to make a user name.

DirectorsKitten, she chose.

The computer fired up without the usual software update. It was not quite brand new, after all. On the desktop there was a single file, named "Manual for Service." She clicked it and started reading.

It told her exactly how Master liked everything, and she soaked it up. There were specifications on how long a skirt could be -- at least six inches above the knee -- and on the proper kind of panties -- thongs, or see-through lace. In any other relationship she would have been offended. But she found herself simply wondering whether it was thongs or see-through lace that he preferred, because she only wanted to have what pleased him.

* * * * *

Outside, the Director drove away in his car. He peeled off the mask and gloves. There was no one around to worry about. In ten minutes, he pulled into his own unassuming home. With his talents, he had no trouble acquiring wealth, but he had never seen any point in having a house bigger than his needs.

Not that he couldn't easily convince someone to clean a mansion for him if he'd wanted to.

He logged onto his own computer. He was an expert at searching. It didn't take him long to find Catherine Vincent's Facebook and Twitter accounts. He made a note of everything he found there. He knew she would obey him, but he wanted to know what made her tick, and what her passions were.

She was smart. Cynical and perhaps a bit naive, but smart.

Satisfied, he opened another program, that connected to the laptop she was using. She was reading the manual, as he'd expected.

"DirectorsKitten, hmm?" the man said to himself. "I've always been more of a dog person, but I think this kitten is worth keeping."