This is the start of an ongoing series introducing Reilly Page to a life of pet play, including intense scenes of humiliation, degradation, cum play, BDSM, anal play, gangbangs, orgies, threesomes, public masturbation and sex, exhibitionism, voyeurism, and many other things. If these things make you uncomfortable, don't bother with this piece. It will be told in duel points of view throughout the series. The first part of this story details how Ms Reilly Page lands herself in the position of being nothing but an owned pet for Mr. and Mrs. Jameson Matthews. The rest of the parts will detail the quick decent into delicious madness that comes from being owned and dominated and craving being used as a cum dump. Feedback is what drives this train, so please leave comments and feedback!
PART I
Ms Reilly Page,
Upon further review of your request for employment, we have decided to extend an invitation for you to attend a follow-up interview. If you are still seeking an offer with Matthews Design, please join Mr. James Matthews at Georgio's Steakhouse, located at 98 State Street, on Wednesday, September 2 at 3:00PM. Ask for Mr. Matthews' table upon arrival. Mr. Matthews specifically requests that you forgo makeup of any kind and dress yourself appropriately. Please RSVP to this email to confirm your acceptance of this second interview. Signed, M Marshall
REILLY
Looking down at the strange email I had received two days ago, I double check the name of the restaurant, confirming I am at the right place and then glance at the clock in the corner of the screen. 2:58. Dropping the device back into the abyss of my purse, I take a deep breath and quickly check my appearance in the window's reflection.
The pale pink, sleeveless sundress falls to the middle of my thighs, and strappy sandals adorn my feet, showing off my black painted toenails. Despite the odd request, I hadn't applied any makeup at all, and I stare back at my clean, bare face in the reflection. I've grown quite attached to my makeup and emboldening my crystal blue eyes and naturally pouty lips with it is one of my favorite things. Standing here now, I feel almost naked without my "war paint", as Dustin calls it, but my desperation for a position in this company had forced me into compliance with the strange request to remain bare faced.
Taking one more deep, cleansing breath, I pull open the door and enter the establishment, my sandy blonde ponytail swinging behind me.
"How many in your party?" the hostess politely asks.
"Um... I'm supposed to meet someone here," I reply, my voice sounding more nervous than I realize I am. "He said to ask for Mr. Matthews' table?"
"Ah... yes," the hostess responds, an amused look immediately appearing on her face. I don't miss the subtle sweep of her eyes down my body. "Follow me, please."
An uneasy feeling washes over me as I follow her to a busy section of the restaurant where James Matthews sits. I recognize him from a photo I saw of him in an online article, but when he stands from his seat as we approach, I'm taken off guard by his attractive appearance in person, and I feel my insides tingle.
Standing at what I would guess to be well over six and a half feet tall, he towers over my small five-foot, two-inch frame. The sleeves of his crisp, white button-up shirt are rolled to the middle of his muscular forearms that are littered with black and gray tattoos extending down onto the backs of his large, strong hands. The seemingly tailored fit of the shirt lightly hugs his muscular torso down to where it is tucked into his gray slacks fastened with a black leather belt. His short, dark hair with a slight spattering of salt and pepper is purposefully tousled, and a stubbly five o'clock shadow surrounds full lips and covers his sharp jaw. Dark gray eyes, outlined with long, thick, dark eyelashes nearly leap out at me as they sweep over my body and then my face.
"James Matthews," he states with a singular nod, introducing himself. With barely a beat of time for me to respond, he dips his head toward my chair. "Have a seat," he immediately instructs, his voice making me swoon despite the uneasy feeling stirring in my gut. I've always been a sucker for that ink black, deep, gravelly voice. Depositing my purse on the chair next to me, I nervously take my seat, my stomach in knots as he takes his without averting his eyes from me.
"I've gotta say, Ms Page," he begins. "I'm a little surprised that you accepted my invitation after what you've done."
The professional smile previously on my face falters, and the nervous knot inside of me tightens. A sleek black folder sits on the table in front of me, and my eyes glue to it as if it has the secret to life etched on its cover. I can feel his eyes boring into me, and nervousness I've never felt before starts to swallow me up.
He sits quietly, filling the silence with an uncomfortable air as he watches me flounder mentally over how to respond.
What? What does he think I've done?
I ask myself, my brain desperately searching its recesses for what he's referring to. After a few awkward, silent moments my voice comes out in a shaky tone, my eyes slowly lifting to his face again. "I don't know what you think I've done, but - "
My voice halts when his expression hardens, and he tips his head toward the folder. "Before we continue, it's a requirement that I get your signature on that," he states. I don't know why I can't will myself to move, but when I stare blankly back at him, he reaches across the table and flips the folder open to reveal a legal document and a black and silver fountain pen. My eyes would rather dance across the way the Matthews Design logo is inscribed on the side of the pen than reading whatever is written underneath the matching letterhead on the paper.
"It's a very simple unilateral NDA," he states, and I feel him watching my every move as my eyes travel over the paper and I pretend like I'm able to focus on reading it. "It states that going forward from this moment, anything discussed or experienced involving me and/or my company remains confidential and you're not allowed to disclose or discuss any of it with anyone other than myself. At all. No exceptions or exemptions to that. The second page is an identical copy for you to keep."
As I scan the document, I see it completely filled in with my information and the current date, and only lacking his and my signatures.
"This of course only applies to legal activity on my part."
"Wait... What?" This is moving fast, and I don't understand why I would need a nondisclosure agreement just for this interview. My eyes bounce up to him when I hear him release a sharp sigh.
"It means that if I ever ask you to do anything illegal, then the NDA doesn't apply."
There's a tingling happening up my spine, and uneasiness is continuing to bloom inside of me as I remain frozen, looking back and forth between him and the document. He remains stoic and composed as he waits, and anything he may be thinking is disguised behind the hardened expression still solidified on his face.
"I don't know what you think I've done," I repeat when I find my voice.
"Sign the papers, Ms. Page."
After another few moments of my lead filled hands remaining inoperable, I finally pick up the pen and sign on the line above my printed name on both pages. I've barely withdrawn my hand from putting the pen down when he takes the items from in front of me and quickly signs his own name on the only other blank lines.
"It's less about what I think and much more about what I've seen with my own eyes on the security cameras," he states as he quickly trifolds one of the papers and places it where the folder used to be in front of me. Closing the folder, he sets it aside while my mind reels.
Oh. Shit. The wallet.
Silence seizes the table, and I can hear my own heartbeat in my ears.
A waiter approaches our table, but James's hard stare remains on my face, making it difficult to breathe. "Good afternoon, Mr. Matthews. Happy to have you join us again, as always," the waiter begins. James nods a response and continues to stare a hole into my face across the table, causing me to drop my eyes to the tablecloth in an attempt to evade his gaze. "My name is Charles, and I'll be your server this afternoon. May I get you started with a whiskey and something for your guest?"
"Yes," James replies with a nod. "Whiskey, neat, for only me, and we'll both have water with lemon."
"Very good, Sir," Charles replies immediately before stepping away from the table, as if he's accustomed to James speaking for himself as well as his guest.
"You wanna start by explaining to me what you think gives you the right to steal from me?" James asks, getting right to the point.
