Well hello there...
It's been some time since I posted, but I'm glad to be back.
This story is the first part of direct sequel to Jonathan Creed. If you haven't already read that, go do that now. You'll be absolutely lost if you don't.
Jonathan is a hard character for me to write, because I have a high ideal for what his character should be...sometimes it is hard to meet that ideal...but I hope I've managed to with this post.
I would like to give my utter, humble, and most sincere thanks to Lady Ver for editing this story for me. She took a story that was rough around all of its edges, and polished it into what you see here today. Any and all remaining errors are mine.
Now, let's get cracking.
-Noble Truth
Chapter 1
The window was open, and the sounds of the city danced into my bedroom moving to a beat both familiar and sublime. A car alarm shrilly blared its unheeded warnings in a back alley as a news helicopter thudded over a city made of glass and dreams. Brave birds attempted to share their songs from their rooftop perches, while the horns of angry cabbies occasionally raised their voices, eager not to be forgotten. My drapes fluttered gracefully in the city breeze . . . carrying with them the stench of urban life.
New York City is my home and my prison . . . depending upon my mood . . . depending on my job. In a fold of leather resting on my bedside table, an ID card and a badge identifies me as Jonathan Creed, FBI agent. In the past two weeks, a beam of happiness had disrupted me from wallowing in my own depression.
In the bathroom of my townhouse was a girl named Sarah Gale. She is new in my life. Circumstances brought us together . . . but we have made the best of our situation, and it is because of her . . . a girl who claims to be my slave . . . that I see myself with different eyes. Sometimes, when I see her look at me with adoration . . . with worship . . . I believe that I can fill the role of 'Master.' But roles change. Sometimes they deepen and become an inseparable part of you, and sometimes they disappear, leaving nothing in their wake but emptiness.
I was lying on the bed when the phone rang.
The melodious, unassuming ring jarred me from my musings. I had been contemplating life, a dangerous subject to be sure. But nonetheless, I had been contemplating something that a dear friend and mentor had once said to me. He had said that a normal life wasn't worth having, and I agreed with him.
The phone ringing seemed like a normal enough occurrence, though, and I thought it best that I answer it despite the fact that I wasn't expecting any callers.
"Hello, this is Jonathan Creed," I said.
"Um? Hello? Mr. Creed, it's Rachel."
I groaned inwardly. Rachel Lebrie was my newly appointed assistant. Mr. Jones had decided that due to my 'excellent' work apprehending the corporate criminal Ronald Turner, I was due for a promotion.
Personally, I didn't really think I did much in the way of 'apprehending' Turner. It would be more accurate to say that he 'apprehended' me, and I just happened to get away and raise a few alarms in the process.
Regardless, my new promotion meant two things.
A bigger office that was the size of a bedroom rather than a closet and an assistant whose purpose would be to answer my calls, deal with annoying subordinates seeking my help, and keep track of me.
I really hated that last part of her job description. If Ms. Lebrie was calling me, then it meant I was needed at the office . . . after I had specifically told Jones, my supervisor, that I would be taking two weeks off.
"Ms. Lebrie," I said rather curtly, "is this urgent? I'm five days into a much needed vacation and would prefer not to be disturbed."
I smiled to myself. This particular disturbance was preventing me from checking in on my showering red-headed slave.
Ms. Lebrie cleared her throat and worked up her courage. "Yes, sir, I know that. But we've had an unidentified caller attempt to reach you via your private FBI number."
My private FBI number?
Well, shit
.
There were very few people who had my private contact number, and none of them called 'just to chat.' All of them were underground contacts who were in situations where it was not in their best interest to call a public FBI telephone number.
I sighed.
"Did he leave a name?" I asked.
"No, sir," Rachel replied earnestly.
"Did he say what he was calling about?"
"No," she said again.
"Did he leave any kind of message at all?" I asked exasperatedly, feeling forced to drag the information out of her.
Rachel nervously cleared her throat again.
"Um, yes, sir. He asked for you personally and said that it was urgent you call him back immediately."
Strange
, I thought to myself. But I could envision one or three of the more eccentric people on my rolodex acting in such a way. In the background I heard the shower turn off. If I hurried I could enjoy a very wet and slippery moment with Sarah before breakfast.
"Rachel, have someone else call him back. Tell him I'm indisposed or something."
I moved to hang up the phone.
"Mr. Creed! Wait!" Rachel shouted into the phone.
I reluctantly pulled the receiver back to my ear. "Yes, Ms. Lebrie?" I said frostily.
She was slightly out of kilter from yelling. Her desk was positioned just outside my door in the big room called 'the bullpen.' Twenty people were probably looking at her funny right now because she had just shouted.
That was probably why she started whispering.
"It's just . . . Mr. Creed, I already had Mr. Scott try and call him back. He lasted two seconds on the phone when your man told him in no uncertain terms that he would only talk to you. He said something about you knowing 'the deal.'"
The connection clicked in my head. There was only one person who had such a 'deal' with me. Pietro Moretti, a powerful figure in the New York mob, and probably one of the highest profile information sources I had at my disposal.
I was a little more than surprised that he had called. I usually had to hunt him down when I needed information. Moretti liked to pretend I didn't exist. If he wanted to talk to me, it was important. If Pietro thought it was important, then I needed to talk to him.
"I'll need about forty minutes to get to the office, depending on traffic," I said.
"Yes, sir, Mr. Creed. Would you like coffee waiting for you? Or perhaps today's news vid?
"No, Rachel. I don't intend to stay long."
"Very well, Mr. Creed."
"Goodbye." I dropped the phone onto the bed and sighed. Hopefully, this could be resolved quickly, whatever it was. The bathroom door creaked open, and a wall of steam rushed into the bedroom.
"Who was that, Master?"
I turned.
Sarah's fiery red hair was tied up in a towel turban . . . woven in that special pattern only girls know how to make. Apart from that, she was naked. Her neural processor, serial number X18, had altered her appearance. It had taken a beautiful teenage model and turned her into a pale, flawless goddess.
The gentle swell of her bust glistened with residual moisture, and her bare, shaven vulva pouted deliciously at the juncture of her legs. Her green eyes peered up at me sparkling with mischief.
Sarah's neural processor had a slave fantasy written on it. I don't know the specifics, or how exactly it made her feel, but the long and short of it was that this delicious teenager wanted... demanded, to be my slave.
And I had promised her I'd try and be the Master she desired.
I took a deep breath and closed my eyes.
Before she got in the shower, we had talked about my being sterner with her. We talked about my treating her like a real slave. I would have to go back to work . . . but I didn't want to go before I addressed this properly.
You can do this, Jonathan...be the Master that she needs.
Something clicked in the back of my head, and a rush of energy poured into my veins. Thoughts, emotions, and ideas expanded from nothing out of the recesses of my consciousness. I was her Master . . . she should be happy to serve me . . . there was nothing more desirable than a perfectly submissive, pliant slave girl . . . and this little redhead would be mine.
